


AU where sanji basically has robin's backstory just because?

by MalkyTop



Series: he is beauty he is grace that's a lie please save this man from himself [9]
Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M, Trans!Sanji, backstory swap au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-10-30 20:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10884714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalkyTop/pseuds/MalkyTop
Summary: as much as he tries to run away, he keeps falling into devotion. it's wrong of him, he knows, because he only brings bad luck.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, i wanna admit something which is, i realize that this concept is slightly problematic because of the whole taking the backstory that is widely loved by the fandom of a relatively underrated female character, and giving it to an extremely popular male character and, i regret that. there are a few other things i regret, but that one's really the most important one...it's still okay to read things that are problematic, though, i mean we all read one piece. i just want y'all to know i'm aware of it. anyways, you can read now.

His mother left him at the age of two, leaving him nothing but a vague collection of colors.

From then on, he lived with his uncle. He remembered crying all day when he was torn off the arm of the only blood relative his infant mind had just started to memorize, not understanding the words around him but understanding enough that they weren't friendly which just made him cry louder, because eventually his mother must hear, if he was just a little louder. She couldn't _ignore_ him.

But she didn't come back.

When he was old enough that his body grew into his head and he was able to balance himself up and down stairs with little help, his aunt stuck a rag in his soft hands and instructed him to scrub the floors. He didn't understand, and so his eyes welled up, his toddler face scrunched, and he wailed a discordant song of discontent that was interrupted with a slap that rattled his head into silence.

“If you have time to cry, then you have time to work!” she said.

His message was not heard, or perhaps it was ignored, and he quickly realized that he would have to hang up this childish communication, bury it deep and let it rot.

So he learned to scrub.

And he learned to wash dishes. And he learned to sweep. And he learned to do laundry, to cook, to sow. He learned the words: lazy girl, stupid girl, leech, good-for-nothing; swirly eyebrows, funny eyebrows, abandoned, unwanted; your mother left you because of those eyebrows, those weird eyebrows, unnatural eyebrows. He learned how to fight. He learned the pain of broken knuckles, the sound of a scream that accompanied a cracked rib, the taste of dirt, of sweat, of blood, learned that hair was easy to grab, that eyes were easy to blind. And he learned another name: beastly girl.

“Look at your dress! Never in my life have I ever seen anybody in such a state! Do you understand that your cousin _never_ got into fights?! Did you do this to try to force me to buy you new clothes?! What a selfish girl, trying to waste our money! You'll still have to wait until Gloria grows out of her clothes, understand?! Go wash yourself up before the neighbors see you!”

He pressed his cut lips together and glared with words that he didn't know yet. He could see his uncle standing behind his aunt and glared at him too, hated him almost as much as he did his aunt, hated the way his eyes shone with concern but his feet remained cemented to the floor, and so he marched with his sole, tattered apparel like it was a uniform, even if he understood that it was just one more name waiting to happen.

He could count the hours by the number of cuts and scrapes and bruises he had, by the number of times he was dragged home by the scruff of his neck and was shoved inside, leaving a sea of apologies on behalf of him until the door was shut and he could freely be called embarrassment, shameful, animal. His uncle disinfected and dressed his wounds until he was more bandage than child, and he counted those as well as they crisscrossed over his body. He counted the sweeps of the broom, the circles he made with the sponge, the bubbles of soap in the sink, and he thought, ah, so this is life.

It was on his fifth birthday that he collapsed from a fever, one of his cuts oozing something dangerous and yellow.

The doctor said he was to be confined to bed, that his temperature was severe enough to be life-threatening. His aunt complained bitterly that there was no one to do the housework now, like it was his fault, and his uncle shushed her, told her not to say this sort of thing in this sort of situation. As he lay there, staring but not really seeing, his body feeling too loud, he wondered if he would die. And his aunt stood over him and said, “This wouldn't happen if you would be a good girl.”

And what did that mean? What was 'good?' What was 'girl?' He didn't know how to be either, or perhaps he couldn't be. He saw the way his cousin was treated, the model of perfection, the way that his aunt cooed over her hair and her dress, indulged in her play, bonded with her over thoughts of the future and of boys, none of which sat right with him. He sometimes saw them laugh together and he couldn't help but think, how frivolous, but someone in his mind reminded him that he had nothing to laugh about, nobody to laugh with, his only occupation the care of the house and his only recreation the bloodying of his hands.

The good thing would be to stop with his beastly ways, let himself be tamed. Stop fighting. Stop talking back. Obey.

But that route was closed off now, wasn't it. He couldn't even if he tried, could he. He was too angry, too spiteful, too _bad_ to ever be good, he was a child of bile and hate and he loved to fight, to curse, to shout and kick and spit, he loved it all, otherwise why would he do it so much?

And on that bed, even though he told himself three years ago that he wouldn't again, he cried with a silent intensity that burned his eyes and flooded his ears.

* * *

 

Seven years old, and he barged into the largest building (and tree) in town, covering his bleeding nose and being chased by of a swarm of insulted children. They pounded their way about, weaving around the furnishings of the inside with no heed to what they were, until someone large and adult appeared with a self-righteous air and bellowed, “ _GET OUT, GET OUT! THIS IS NO PLACE FOR HOOLIGANS!_ ”

The combination of his imposing height and his really weird beard managed to drive off the rampaging kids, who shouted back irreverent remarks nevertheless. The man huffed at their childish audacity before turning back into the library and saying, “You too.”

The remaining delinquent stiffened and kept still out of the rather unreasonable hope that he meant some _other_ kid that was also hiding behind a bookcase to avoid getting chased out.

No such luck.

The old man had a grasp that was rather firm for his age, and it snaked out and snatched the child's arm with the speed of a cobra. He yelped as he was tugged out into view, which at least seemed to invoke a sympathetic release of his arm. He took the chance to back away but proceeded no further – the only thing waiting outside would be more fights, after all. This place seemed more populated by objects, a sense of the ancient divine that could not be touched by human violence. It was calming, in a way that nothing else ever was.

The man knelt down so that he could better see his face. It struck him with such an inescapable image that he couldn't help but blurt out, “Clover.”

The clover-shaped face laughed at his embarrassed efforts to swallow back his word. “Well, that _is_ my name,” and he was struck dumb at what must have been the most serendipitous choice of nomenclature in all of recorded history. Either that, or the geezer decided to model himself after his namesake. As he considered whether to boggle or laugh, Clover asked for his name as well and he automatically murmured, “Synnøve.”

Clover appraised his appearance with a morose look that contradicted his initial introduction. “My, what a sad look for a young girl...why don't we clean you up? I have enough medical knowledge to at least bandage those nasty wounds...”

He beckoned Synnøve to follow, and it was easy to do so, when it seemed his reputation hadn't followed him in this taciturn place. The two of them walked to the far wall, past shelves and shelves of books. Spines of all color stretched on to either side, almost blending together in their sheer number. Synnøve found that he couldn't even begin to count them all.

“Why's your house only got books in it, old man?” he said, the first sentence he could remember being borne out of a natural curiosity.

“Please, call me professor,” Clover replied with a mild chuckle. “And this isn't my house, though I suppose that I spend much of my life in here. This is a library. These books belong to everybody.”

Synnøve gave a suspicious look in return. “I don't own books.”

“Perhaps not, but these books belong to you regardless. You may come in here and borrow these books to read as you please.”

“Dunno how to read,” Synnøve said with a little bit of defiance, as though challenging the professor to say anything about that, see what happens, punk.

“Well, that's a shame,” was the only answer.

They entered a much smaller room in the back, which felt something like a secret, though definitely more mundane compared to the endless expanse of books. There was a table with a few errant chairs, a counter, a sink, and a fridge. Clover knelt down to heft Synnøve up on the table but after being rebuked, let Synnøve crawl up himself. The two settled in a silence created by the gap in their ages as the elder began tending to the cuts on the younger, who refused to hiss whenever disinfectant touched his gaping skin.

There were quite a lot of cuts to clean, and so the silence drew out until Clover's hands trailed up to the mark left on Synnøve's cheek and offhandedly remarked, “Your eyebrow certainly reminds me of your mother...”

“You know my mom?!” Synnøve shot out, dropping all apathetic pretenses and almost falling off the table in his eagerness. A benevolently cross look from Clover was all it took for him to settle down apologetically, though his face shone with an intense determination.

“Yes, well...she did not stay with us for long, but I certainly knew her – “

“Why'd she leave?” Synnøve blurted out, not someone who could appreciate Clover's languid storytelling style.

Clover fell silent again for a moment, brushing back Synnøve's hair to dab at a cut on his scalp. “The hard question first, eh? Well...she's being chased by….some powerful people. I'm certain she didn't want her only daughter involved in that sort of life.”

He almost collapsed with the answer of a five-year-old question, an answer that contradicted all the other answers he had gotten throughout his life, and he wondered if it was so strong because it was true, or simply because he wanted to believe it.

“So she couldn't help it,” he said, without realizing. His head bowed under the weight of Clover's hand and he smiled, or did something akin to that, clutched that answer close like a blanket, a ward, a shield, something new to stave off the other answers that were shouted at him in taunting sing-song.

Clover taped the last bandage and gave a lingering rustle of his hair. “You have her eyebrows, too,” he said, and Synnøve could hear something behind that one statement, something that sounded like regret.

* * *

 

The library wasn't as void as people as Synnøve had initially thought. Every day, there was an abundance of adults going in and out, people called 'scholars,' who called Clover by name rather than by title. People who didn't lurch back at his presence, but leaned down and gave a solid pat on his shoulder and congratulated whatever progress he's made in reading. They patiently gave him definitions of words longer than five letters. Took the time to read to him. Learning that he had never had a birthday party in his life, they threw together seven in quick succession, and he gorged on so much cake that he barfed – and though the scholars practically tore themselves apart, because of _course_ eating seven cakes in one day was a bad idea they were so _stupid_ , he felt so happy, because it was the first time he had _too_ much to eat. They even bought him trousers like he asked, didn't question when he insisted on absolutely no dresses.

And he read. Kept reading, practically _devoured_ the words in front of him, and when he ran out of books in the common tongue he simply learned other languages just so he could read more, learn more, about adventure and love and the sky and the sea and history and freedom.

In this way, the beast was tamed.

* * *

 

As bright as the day started, it became a perfectly miserable one, battering the library with the sort of rain that soaked the body with chills and made even the puddles more of a trial than a playground. It was bad enough that the scholars refused to let him walk home, insisted he stay until it let up, at least until one (or all) of them could walk him home, and that's what made it so perfect.

Everybody had, as usual, congregated in the oh-so mysterious basement when Synnøve hollered through the door that it was _dinner_ already, come up and _eat_ you stupid adults, and the literary crowd stumbled their way up above the ground blinking like moles and meandering contently towards the kitchen that their collectively-adopted child had commandeered a long time ago. The tiny general stamped his foot twice, one arm akimbo, as he saw to attendance and the distribution of food.

“Geez! You'd all just starve away down there without even noticing if it weren't for me!” he said, and the lucky first-in-line managed to look convincingly ashamed even in the face of his adorably annoyed expression.

“Ahh~ Synnøve-chan, sorry, we all just get so wrapped up in our work...” But the cook was already off, counting, counting again, before scampering back down the stairs and returning with the stray Clover in tow, dragging him by the arm in the manner of dragging him by the ear. He looked nothing like a distinguished professor, the way he was being tugged along by such a small child, and everybody chuckled in amusement despite their familiarity with the scene; until Synnøve's righteous glare cowed them back into silence, and then dinner properly started.

There may have been a couple of armchairs, placed strategically around the bookshelves, but everybody sat on the floor together, chatting lightly about things decidedly not intellectual, jokes and gossip and life and food. Synnøve surveyed it all with the air of a satisfied parent, until someone pointed out that he wasn't eating and he was compelled to join the masses himself just so that he wouldn't be a hypocrite.

“I never stop being surprised about how good your cooking is,” said a gourd-shaped woman next to him. Her brown hair bristled with curls that seemed to twist with pleasure whenever she took a bite.

“I had loads of practice,” Synnøve said, keeping his voice modest as his knees bounced with a different sort of pleasure, and it was so strange, for something that used to be bitter to turn into a badge of pride whenever he was here, with these people.

“Hm? Synnøve, what's that you got under your arm?”

He paused to check, paused again to remember. “Oh yeah! Um, there was this part, in here? I wanted to ask, on this page, 'cause I thought maybe it said something about All Blue but I wasn't sure – here, look.” There was a bit of juggling of bowls and book as the immediate vicinity tried to figure out a way to eat without marring the pages with fragrant foodstuff. Finally, a long-legged scholar held the book up and peered at the page.

“Let's see…'an isolated sea that is separate from all other seas, yet contains all other seas...'”

“Yeah! Yeah! That's All Blue, right? That's what they're talking about?”

“It seems so, but...this is written in an old North Blue language. Synnøve, you can read this?”

He hastily ducked his head, looking into his soup with a flush. “Um, not really...only some words. There's just so many books here, and, and, not all of it's in Common, but I wanna read 'em all, but learning different words for words is hard...”

But the adults laughed and took turns setting their wide hands on his head and scruffling up his hair until he pulled away with a face that made them laugh again. “Such a smart kid! Not everybody can pick up a language like that!”

“You'd make a diligent researcher, Sy!”

“Y'know, if you compiled everything you can find on All Blue and write about it, you could be famous with all the scholars.”

“No way!” Synnøve shot back, smacking all the reaching hands away. “I don't wanna write about it, I wanna go there! If nobody ever found it, that means there's no Aunties there, and no stupid kids with rocks, and I'll make a house there and anybody who was mean would have to go away because it's my house.”

The group listening in said nothing to that, exchanging glances that he recognized on his uncle, glances that were too troubled to move their mouths and say what they meant. It didn't suit them, if only because none of them were his uncle and this wasn't his house, so he said, “I'll take you guys too! Whenever you're all ready, I'll take you on my boat and we can live together. I can make my house a library, and you can stay there. If I didn't have any friends, I woulda run away, but now I do! So I can't leave without everybody.”

His beam was met by various smiles that still had his uncle's look hanging over them. One of them chuckled weakly. “That sounds _lovely._ ”

“You should just leave without us. We can't go anywhere any time soon.”

“ _Pegg!_ Don't _encourage_ her to run away!”

“What? People should have the right to go where they want if they're not happy where they are.”

“ _She's not even ten!_ ”

“You can't leave 'cause of that big rock, right?”

Everybody stopped. Even the ones who hadn't been listening stopped. The silence, which should have suited the library, was much too choking to be comfortable. Synnøve hesitated, but repeated, in case nobody understood the question, “You can't go right now...'cause, um, the big rock, in the basement? Right?”

As one, the scholars seem to all fall over, with a collective shout of, “ _SHE FOUND OUT!_ ”

“How'd she know about the Poneglyph!?”

“Idiot, don't say what it _is!_ ”

“B-but she's seen it! She must've seen it, right?! She's already in big trouble!”

Only Clover seemed to remain upright, and had actually went the opposite direction, onto his feet, and he hopscotched over plates and bowls and overturned colleagues on a straight path towards Synnøve, who had also jumped up, realizing that this might be one of those situations to run away from, but Clover grabbed his arm and leaned down with straining eyes and a burning red brow, and he said, “I _told_ you! Never! To go into the basement!”

Synnøve tugged fruitlessly. “I didn't! I just peeked! It's just a rock with stuff on it, what's the big deal!”

“ _Synnøve,_ ” Clover barked, stilling everybody in the library once more, even as his voice grew low and somber, like a funeral. “What we are doing here is _very dangerous._ If we are found out by the World Government, we would...we would be known as _criminals._ Do you understand?”

Synnøve looked around and only saw equally somber faces, sometimes hard, sometimes sorrowful, none of them contradicting the reality of Clover's words or the possibility of their deaths. It hit him, right in the ribs, and if Clover wasn't still holding him he might have run.

“Do not speak of the Poneglyph. Not in town. Not here. Do not even _hint_ that there is anything in the basement. Your knowledge of its existence may even implicate you as an accomplice, and I could _never_ forgive myself if we involved you.”

He wasn't crying, not now, but his voice quavered just a little when he blurted out, “Let's go. W-we could get away from here, and, and, nobody would find us, 'cause – “

Clover smiled, then, but it wasn't a happy smile, no, not at all, and he said, “We can't. The Poneglyph is too heavy to move.”

“Forget it, then! Who cares about that rock?! What if someone finds out?! Just leave it behind!”

He let go of his arm and instead brushed a finger against his cheek, gently. “I cannot explain it to you. But, you see...it's our All Blue.”

Synnøve stayed away from the library for a few days, curling up on his bed whenever he had nothing to do. He tried to sift and parse out his emotions, but they kept whirling in an ouroboros of thought so that he couldn't tell if he felt betrayed or scared or sad or empathetic. His aunt stomped around him, breathing out the names he knew well, but he couldn't care about trifling things like chores. That damn rock seemed to tower over everything else, casting any other concern into obscurity, overshadowing his friends with something too heavy for them to hold. He hated the rock for what it was doing, pushing the only people he loved to the brink of something...something that was much larger than the town, much larger than the island, even. And yet.

Synnøve cracked first, and he consoled himself with the idea that, as long as he said nothing, pretended he never even met eyes with that cursed rock, then nothing bad would ever happen.

* * *

 

White sails were spotted cresting the horizon, though he wasn't there to see it. The entire house needed to be scrubbed, the laundry put out, the comforters beaten, the fireplace cleaned, on and on and on, until he took a break just to get some feeling back in his arms besides 'throbbing ache' and, only then did he notice the crescendo of conversation outside.

The doorknob refused to turn at his pathetic pawing, so he scooted a chair to one of the windows and peeped out above the crowd of heads.

There, among the sea of hair, was a marching, bobbing line of marine-white hats.

He scrabbled at the door a little harder, too long, much too long, until with a final, painful wrench, he managed to stumble out and into the back of the crowd. The adult he ran into turned to tell him off, but he quickly asked, “What's going on?”

The novelty of the event was enough to overturn his pariah state and so he was told, “The marines are here...”

The forest of legs surrounding him shifted slightly, circling around the other adult. “They just said the scholars are criminals, right? I wasn't hearing things?”

“It's unbelievable, isn't it?” he heard someone say, as blasé as talking of disappointing weather. He couldn't see the marines anymore. They were going to the library. They were going to…

The thoughts in his head got drowned out by the pounding of his feet, or his heart, or something. Think, _think._

The library loomed above the center of the island. All roads led to it. Straight lines. But he ran, as though if he tried hard enough, he could just _make_ a shortcut, warp space around him so he could beat the marines, _please_ beat the marines, if there was one thing in life he deserved (though maybe he had never deserved anything to begin with, and didn't that make sense?), if he was allowed _one_ bit of selfishness –

The library was being emptied of scholars when he arrived, with marines lined up all around, gesturing with guns and faces infuriatingly unsympathetic. The scholars stood as straight as the military and looked much more stately even without a uniform, but that soon changed when he burst into the clearing with burning lungs and a hotter disappointment.

“ _Synnøve!_ ” Clover roared, striding forward despite the situation. A marine snapped a gun in his direction and he was aware enough to stop, but he shouldn't have to, there shouldn't even _be_ guns pointing at him, threatening with high-speed lead.

A marine approached. “Hey, little girl, you shouldn't be here. Why don't you go find your parents on the refugee – “

He punched the piece of shit straight in the bits, dodging around his collapsing form and running for the scholars again; but in the end, even if he had years of fighting and kicking and biting behind him, they were adults. Adults that could pick him up easily, pin his arms, push him against the ground, until he was just an ineffectual, weak _child_ and all he could do was just _scream._

“Now gentleman,” slithered a voice from the library door. “Is this the way the world's heroes ought to treat children?”

“Sir, she's intent on attacking us.”

“Are you saying you can't even deal with a _child?_ ”

“Sir, please, I suggest you don't approach – “

A face slid into view. There was a man, not in uniform but in a black suit, and somehow he was just immediately detestable in a way that couldn't be explained. It wasn't just his hair or his sneer or his voice, but something in his very essence that felt repulsive. It all focused on Synnøve, and he said, “You ought to be a _good_ girl and – “

Synnøve's teeth sank into his leg.

The next second, his head rang with the rebounding of his brain in his skull. It took him a little while to realize that he tasted blood. Around him, sounds blazed about, wavering in and out of his comprehension.

“Sir!”

“What?! You saw...! What...supposed to do?! Damn kid...hm…?”

A dark shape shadowed his view.

“Hang on...this kid...one of...asked about someone like her, right? ...weird eyebrows _can't_ be a coincidence...”

“Yes, Chief Spandine. ...the description of...girl, unique eyebrows...”

He seemed to black out. Or at least, he stopped listening to the words. There was the sensation of being picked up, too fast, his head spun anew and he might have moaned.

The familiar sounds of Clover's voice...still so authoritative, even now, though what he was lecturing on was lost.

And then, two words that were chillingly ominous enough to stir his brain to something similar to consciousness:

“Buster Call.”

He looked around. He was on another suited man's shoulder, nose pressed against his back. There was a flickering light that made him nauseous. He looked to the left.

Oh. The library was on fire.

The tree seemed to writhe in the flames, shaking out debris that he realized were books. The scholars were in there, tossing tomes out into the lake below, saving what they could. The scholars were also still standing outside. He heard them there, felt their stares boring into – well, not him, but the one holding him.

“Where are you taking her,” Clover said, his voice the lowest and darkest he had ever heard.

The despicable man waved dismissively. “Just join your friends in the fire, gramps. She'll be alive, better off than you. You should be glad. She'll be with her father.”

He could hear the shuddering in Clover's voice when he replied, “She was not left here just to go back! If you're a father, then – “

“Then what? I should leave her here on a doomed island?”

An explosion rocked the ground and rained dirt and bits of tree on them, as though trying to back up the despicable man. The person carrying Synnøve stumbled and it was like something in his brain flipped a switch – this was his chance, this was his _chance –_ to do what? But he was already pushing with his hands, wriggling his legs, until he just slid out of the grasp and rolled on the ground.

He shook his head. Stopped, when the world spun again. He heard, “Shit! Pick her up and let's go, before the damn Buster Call kills _us!_ ”

“ _No!_ ”

And then:

A gunshot.

He whirled around. His eyes blurred from the sudden movement and from the excess of smoke, but he could still see Clover, see him reel back, see a hole in him that shouldn't be there.

But he didn't fall. He took a steadying step, and then, with a speed that surprised everybody, tackled the man closest to Synnøve.

Everybody seemed to pause to understand this turn of events, even the man who was currently being grappled, but then everything started again, much too soon. Marines started raising their guns, but hesitated to shoot at risk of friendly fire. The detestable man growled with rage and started to shout incomprehensible orders. Other men advanced on Clover, and on him.

“Synnøve, _run,_ ” Clover said, sounding not like a professor, and he stared up, not ready to figure out what he was feeling but tearing up anyways, and he could only stand there, even when there was someone else approaching, to hurt Clover, to take him.

There was another blur, frantic firing of guns, and suddenly more of the suited men were met by bodies made immovable despite their lack of physical training. “Synnøve, run!” a scholar repeated. “ _Run,_ already! Get off the island any way you can!”

All around, scholars wrestled with marine rifles. Charged forward with nothing but their own bodies and determination. Blood was starting to pool in places on the ground, and Synnøve watched, his breathing getting harder even before he turned and ran, ran faster than ever, and in the end, it wasn't because he was obeying his only family, it was because he was afraid of what he would eventually see.

He felt something rotting inside, eating its way out, but kept running, long past the voices that bellowed behind him. Every time the earth shook with a not-so-distant explosion, his heart leapt into his throat – but he didn't, couldn't, stumble. Just keep running. Don't think about what's behind, don't think about what's coming from above, _don't,_

The shore.

The refugee ship already left it. He stood there, gulping down air that was starting to get tainted with ash, watched it go. Felt something welling up in his chest again, let it out in the form of a wet cough –

The ship fell apart like the island it left behind.

Bits of sail and wood plopped into the sea. It had been so completely and thoroughly blasted that Synnøve couldn't even see bodies, just an object that couldn't be identified anymore. Nothing big enough to be called flotsam, nothing usable left, nothing that would wash up on a distant shore and hint at a larger story. It simply added to the building smoke in the air.

Navy warships surrounded the island, so unbelievably huge, almost as big as the library, and he could clearly see the World Government's mark on the sails, the flags. The cross that represented the world, the entity that tied all the oceans together under one rule.

He turned back. Ran further into the forest, dodging falling branches as much as he could, scratching his arms against foliage. He started feeling a stabbing pain up his feet – oh, yes, he forgot his shoes. Just one of many things he was leaving behind today, wasn't he.

His feet led the way to a lump hidden under a shoddy camouflage, which he tore off to reveal an equally shoddy boat. A project built off of a daydream that had grown to involve other people – and yet here he was, alone.

The boat, or maybe it was more accurate to call it a raft, didn't sink, which was the most he could hope for. He waded out after it in the choppy water, crawled on, and started to paddle.

He wasn't sure what direction he was supposed to go in. Just 'away.' And he could do nothing but stare at the place where he was getting away from, because rowing required him to, and he took in the red sky, the uninhabitable island, the occasional barrage of the lingering attack. The water seemed to flicker as harshly as the fire. He kept thinking he saw people down below the waves, grasping, staring, before sinking down, down…

His escape wasn't quite so fast-paced anymore, and so his brain was forced to slow, had the ability to reflect, play back what had just happened, as much as he didn't want it to. His ribs seemed to collapse and he stopped to curl up and try to control his breathing. He coughed instead. His eyelids couldn't keep out the light of the wreckage. He still heard the booming of something he wished he could pretend was just thunder. His amateur raft kept bobbing, reminding him just where he was.

They should've gone with him. They should've _listened,_ left this island behind long ago, with him, gone to a place where something like this…

The act of blaming them made him feel even sicker.

If only. If only they could have been untouchable. Some place out of reach from the World Government, from laws that, that just…did things like _this._

All Blue...an undiscovered sea. Not on maps. Not on flags, or sails, or anything. There couldn't be any freer place.

If only...we had…

* * *

 

The mustached man had a ridiculous hat that clearly indicated him as the boss of this place. He had eyes with too many wrinkles, a face that sagged in ways that seemed something more than just age. Those eyes were scrutinizing him now, up and down. They didn't need to cover that much distance.

“This ain't a place for brats. Go home, kid.”

He stood there and scrutinized right back, down and up, up, up. He had gotten used to the lightness of his hair now, the way the back of his neck was now exposed. There was nothing he could do about the eyebrows. “I've been cooking all my life.”

“All three years?”

He kept staring, refusing to answer. The chef with the ridiculous hat eyed him some more, rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I'm not running a house for snotty runaways here. This is a _business._ I employ _adults._ With _skill._ ”

Well, the old man was right. He was a runaway. He had just ran away from a merchant ship. But he wasn't here to list his bloodied tracks that led him here.

“People liked my cooking,” he maintained. “You should let me try before kicking me out. I'll be your best chef.”

At this, the man could help but bark out a laugh, something too harsh to be amused. Disbelief, perhaps. “You don't even have your _pubic_ hair and you think you're better than my men?”

He didn't know what pubic hair was, but he tried to look affronted anyways.

“You're only staying until your parents – “

“Have none.”

“ – _whoever_ , grabs you and dump you back on the ship you came from – “

“Snuck on the ship.” He grinned, then, teeth crooked and snaggled from years of fist fights and from that one night. “Nobody's here that'll miss me. Nobody's gonna come pick me up. You're stuck with me, old shit.”

“I'm calling the marines.”

“What, _no –_ “

He slapped his hands over his mouth but wasn't fast enough to beat the speed of sound. The old shit swiveled back around on his peg leg, eyebrows touching each other, and he looked him up and down again. What now? Did he think he was a criminal? Was he thinking of the best way to restrain him until a Navy ship could come? They couldn't have much more than ropes or something, easy stuff to get out of if he got caught, not that he was _going_ to, his legs were already braced and he was a much better runner than when – than before. There were patrons, though, he could get easily surrounded, and there was nothing but sea around, no good escape route and _why_ did he think this was a good idea, so _stupid –_

“You any good at being a waiter?”

His brain skidded to a halt, but he had learned to be enough of a liar to nod and say, “Yeah, 'course.” His legs kept themselves braced. What's his angle? Was this just a distraction, to lure him in and keep him here willingly while he went around back and called the marines? But that was too obvious wasn't it, unless he _knew_ it was too obvious, and was counting in him to _think_ it was too obvious –

“My men are good cooks, but they're shit at being hospitable. You're gonna have to seat customers, take orders and deliver their food, pretend that you don't hate their guts. Unless they're too uppity. Then you can call someone to beat the shit outta them and toss them out.”

He blinked, his mind derailing again. “Uh. Yeah. I'm good at pretending.”

The man nodded, though what could he be approving? He gestured to follow him around back, but stopped and turned his head, remembering something.

“What's your name?”

His mind whirred, spinning through aliases he had already used and discarding them, eyes glancing around for any bolt of information – tables; patrons; food; fish; sea; clock –

“Sanji,” he decided.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> take a shot whenever sanji thinks or does unhealthy shit.

The first thing he had to do as a waiter was take a bath. This was a fancy establishment, see? So nobody would want to get served by a filthy mudball piece of shit.

Owner Zeff almost stayed by the bath with him, but Sanji flustered around a bit and shouted out, “I can wash myself, old shit!” and though he glared at him, he did leave. Sanji locked the door behind him and was securely alone.

Warm water. And soap! He soaked himself in this rare luxury, let himself slow down and un-tense, but only for this moment. Once he got out again, he had left behind a thin film of himself floating on top. His outer skin of dirt and dried blood and who knew what else. In the mirror, he looked red and raw, but fresh, at least, but he had to put his clothes back on and it was like the dirt never left at all. Owner Zeff’s stupid mustache bristled when Sanji opened the door. “You didn’t even brush your hair, you little shit.”

Sanji stood with his shoulders squared and tried to look as tall as he could. “How much’m I getting paid?” This was probably something he should’ve asked earlier. But Owner Zeff had immediately taken him around back, and the bath had beckoned.

“You get free meals and a place to sleep,” said Owner Zeff, reaching down to grab his arm. Sanji dodged and backed away.

“Don’t give me that shit, old man! You pay those crap cooks of yours with coin, you better pay me too!”

“Snotty brats like you don’t need money. You wanna buy something, you tell me and I’ll decide if you get it or not.”

Oh. Like an allowance. Like he was his _dad_ or something. Sanji spat sparks of saliva, right on the floor. “Don’t treat me like a fuckin’ kid.”

Owner Zeff grabbed at his arm again, and this time it stayed grabbed. Sanji had to muffle a yelp. “You spout that language in front of the customers, I’ll kick your ass so hard you won’t see it again until you’re seventy. If you can’t see a good fucking deal when it’s right there in your face, you might as well get the hell outta here. Got it?”

It _was_ a pretty good deal, and Sanji hated it, but he nodded. Nodded with as sullen a glare as he could, just so that he knew this wasn’t over yet, asshole.

Owner Zeff started pulling him along down the hall, but Sanji managed to squirm enough for him to let go, let him walk himself.

“So I start tomorrow?”

He grunted. “No. Tomorrow you learn the menu and dishes so you can tell the shitheads out there what each dish actually is. Today, you’re getting new clothes, ‘cause oddly enough, I don’t got any shitty uniforms for bratty eggplants.”

“ _Eggplant?”_ He marched as fast as he could to keep pace with Owner Zeff’s longer strides. But the other part of the sentence caught up to him and his affront became wary. “New clothes? You’re taking me to a shop?”

“No, I’m gonna grab a cook and tell him to sow you up a frilly dress. Are you an idiot?”

Owner Zeff was definitely not meant to be a dad. He didn’t even try to be. It was infuriating as it was refreshing, after a year of false comfort and too-high voices. It was almost honest, but he couldn’t think like that, wouldn’t let this stupid mustache man grab his heart that he had worked so hard to kill, and so he said, “Piss off.”

* * *

If Owner Zeff was a terrible dad, his employees were just plain terrible.

“Shit, look at that hair! Kid, you keeping a bird in there or something?”

“What the fuck is that _eyebrow?_ Hey, lemme see the other one.”

“A goddamn kid as a waiter. Hell, why not a baby as a cook? Fuckin’ Zeff...”

“Hey, don’t curse around the fucking kid!”

“I fucking know every fucking curse already, shithead!” Sanji bellowed back. This didn’t impress the cooks at all, and one of them dragged him over to a seat and started raking a brush through his tangled mop of hair. Or, tried to. A few seconds in and the cook resorted to yanking it, prompting an emphatic “Ow! _Fuck!”_ from Sanji. The brush now hung from his head like an ensnared bug. Sanji tugged on it, surrounded by cooks, all staring at him like a puzzle.

“Let’s dunk him in water, maybe?”

Every time his head got pulled up, spluttering and coughing, he’d take the chance to blindly shout out how much he hated these pieces of shits, how they could all fuck off and die, how he hoped their corpses would bloat and fester because they were so shitty not even the worms would take them, and once they were gone the entire world could finally live in peace without their malodorous presence.

“Big words for a kid,” was the only acknowledgment he got before water filled his ears again and he shut his eyes and thought, I’m not even lying, I hate all of you so much I don’t even have to _try,_ and I’m going to make you all hate me too by the time I leave and we won’t ever miss each other. I’ll disappear one day and find someone else to hate, someone else to hate me back, and all of you will breathe a sigh of relief and move on with your lives. I hate you and you and you and you…

Eventually, his hair got to a state of manageability. They snipped off all of his split ends, evened it out a little, though they let him keep the asymmetrical fringe after he threatened to shave their balls off. They got to see his other eyebrow and got a laugh out of that and he hated them so much.

And that worked out fine.

* * *

Sanji walked up to the table, pad of paper in hand, and said, “What the fuck d’ya want.”

Owner Zeff very slowly collapsed his face into his hands as all the spying cooks hooted with laughter. He rubbed against his face, briefly pulled back his leathery skin, and then looked down at Sanji.

“Care to make a guess what you did wrong there?”

Sanji stood, leaning carelessly on one leg. He was in work clothes, which admittedly felt better than anything he had ever worn, but it was so straight and tight and clean, two rows of buttons lined up all military on his chest, and it was _white,_ which he hated. He wiped his nose with a hand and then wiped that on the shirt. Owner Zeff’s face crinkled hard. “You tell me, monsieur baguette.”

The laughing began anew as Owner Zeff snapped to his feet, ridiculous mustache quivering, but Sanji ducked under the table before his leg was even in the air and the cooks all cackled harder, clapping their knees, not quite able to see under the table cloth where he crouched with wide eyes, as far away from those legs as he could get.

It was a good place to be, under the table. Any adult would have to get on all fours to get under here, and he could kick their face freely, or stomp on their hands, bite their fingers, pull on their hair until they figured out it was way too much trouble. It was a little complicated with so many people, but as long as he paid attention, he could avoid being surrounded.

There was the table cloth getting pulled away, and Sanji got ready, but Owner Zeff never stuck any part of him under the table. He was squatting, staring, working his jaw in thought. “Just so you know, hiding under the table isn’t professional either.”

“Fuck off.”

“Try again, shitty eggplant.”

“Go jump off the ship and die.”

“Better,” Owner Zeff said, and as Sanji squinted, he retreated, stood up with a grunt. “It’s a pain in the ass to teach like this. Get out here already.”

This was different. It was new, it was confusing, and he didn’t like it. He watched those legs carefully when they appeared again, sitting on the chair, but they didn’t move his way, even though they could probably manage to hit him by chance if the guy just kicked out or something, but he wasn’t doing that, and Sanji hated this. It would have been fine if Owner Zeff shouted, stomped around, jabbed at him with a broom, eventually gave up and went to bed, but he did none of that and that just felt wrong.

The one working foot tapped once, twice. “Hey, shithead, take my order already.”

Sanji waited a little longer, but nothing changed, and so he had no choice but to chance it and crawl out again. Out the opposite side of the table, of course, away from those legs, he wasn’t stupid, but even when he jumped up and tensed his feet, Owner Zeff didn’t get up. None of the cooks were really doing anything either, silent for once, like whatever was funny just disappeared somewhere, and Sanji picked up the notepad from where he dropped it in his rush, and stepped a little closer to Owner Zeff.

For a while, Sanji just stood, held fast in the stillness of the atmosphere, buried by this oddly grave ceremony. But then Owner Zeff cleared his throat and said, a little louder, “I’m _ready_ to _order.”_

Sanji wrinkled his nose at the prompt and snapped out a defiant, “Yeah?” Owner Zeff scrutinized him a few seconds more, but accepted the response.

“I’ll have the ratatouille, followed by linguine alfredo with shrimp scampi, delmonico steak, medium rare, put the sauce on the side – “

“Slow the fuck down, I can’t write that fast!” The scrawl his pencil made was halfway illegible, even to him, and didn’t get any better when Owner Zeff reached out and pulled on his cheek. “Ow ow ow,” he complained, even though it didn’t really hurt much, only when he tried to break away, so he just let himself be pulled.

“Watch the fucking mouth, little shit,” was the growled warning before Sanji found his cheek freed and he stepped back, far out of range.

“Oh, _apologies,_ ” Sanji replied, taking a bow. “Please, sir, as this humble waiter has some difficulty keeping up with the speed at which you are delivering your order, would you kindly consider slowing the fuck down?”

He thought it was pretty clever, and the other cooks thought it was funny, but Owner Zeff didn’t quite see it that way and Sanji tasted nothing but soap for three days.

* * *

He caught sight of those military whites and swallowed the urge to bolt. Instead, he finished setting the plates down for a lady who cooed over him and walked back to the kitchen with as much speed as was safe. He kept the tray under his arm as much as he wanted it over his face. Didn’t even take half a month and the goddamn marines were already here, and as soon as he was through the kitchen door, one of the line cooks barked out, “Oi, Sanji! Tables four and ten needs their entrees, you little bastard!”

Sanji took a deep breath, didn’t move from the door. He was straining his ears but the kitchen was the worst place to eavesdrop, all sizzles and pops and insults. But he couldn’t risk peering out because if he could see them, then they could see him; and there was something to the idea of ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ he thought. Maybe if he stayed out of sight, they would just forget him and leave.

It was childish naivety, though, and even as he indulged himself in wishful thinking, he looked around for an escape.

“Sanji,” said Owner Zeff, and it was so unfortunate that the damn geezer was expediting today. Sanji peeled away from the door.

“Just gotta take a piss real quick,” he muttered, making for the back exit, but Owner Zeff’s hand was too fucking fast for his age, too fucking strong, able to fucking pick him up by the collar and dangle him there.

“Who said you could take a break, shitty eggplant?” But there wasn’t any time for this now, couldn’t he see? Sanji wheeled his legs in the air, trying to kick back, but his reach was just too short.

“Lemme go!” he roared with that usual, familiar disdain, and some of the cooks laughed and turned to watch another fight, but Sanji’s eyes kept flicking to the door and Owner Zeff was just a piece of shit because he turned his head to follow his gaze and looked back with that ugly stupid face and said, “Alright assholes, think you can handle shit without me for once?”

“We’ll handle better without your nagging ass around,” was the sneering reply, and Owner Zeff kicked the offending joker harshly in the leg as he walked out the back door, still holding up Sanji like a cat.

“What’re you _doing,_ ” Sanji hissed, his heart jumping when he saw the flag of the Navy ship fluttering above. Owner Zeff kicked open the hatch that led below deck and eased his way down as best as he could with one leg a peg and one hand with a kid.

No, no, this was bad, this was enclosed, this was a _trap,_ and he wanted to scream but he couldn’t so he tried to swing wildly until he was discouraged with a knock to the head. “Shitty moron, get in here and don’t come out until I tell you.”

Owner Zeff pulled aside a hidden panel and tossed him in before shutting it again, and this time Sanji screamed, short and clipped because he couldn’t afford unnecessary noise, but it was enough for Owner Zeff to open the panel again and look him over.

After a moment, the two of them scrutinizing each other, Owner Zeff retreated again, said in a too-soft, not-Zeff voice, “I’ll take care of it,” and closed up the space Sanji was in once more.

His breath started to hitch. Take care of what? Take care of _him?_ And Sanji scrabbled at the panel for a few seconds before his brain supplied that there was actually a positive meaning to the phrase ‘take care of.’ Though of course, it could be that the geezer had tried to comfort him so that he would let his guard down and then would get ‘taken care of’ in the _real_ way, so he needed to calm down and figure out an escape already.

The space he was in was oddly shaped, and there was an actual seat in here. Two actual seats, and foot pedals at the bottom, and now that he was looking, was this the freaking figurehead…? The figurehead was a ship? Was it really that easy?

No, no. It needed two people. The marines would notice it immediately. He couldn’t out-pedal their sails. No. Of course not.

The hidden panel was easy to remove when he wasn’t panicking. He set it to the side and stuck his head out, cocking an ear up.

“Look here sir, we’re searching for a criminal, and if you impede us any longer, I could have you arrested for obstruction of justice!” An unfamiliar, military voice. Decidedly sounding unprofessional at the moment, but Patty had that effect on people. Who the hell knows how he keeps getting assigned to man the front. Given that every day he seemed to push the boundaries of courtesy and belligerence in increasingly creative ways, Sanji felt like Patty didn’t know either.

“Well, ya officer bastard,” and there was Patty’s nauseating voice now, “in case you didn’t know, _customer is king!_ You’re not a customer, so you can fuck off.”

Someone whistled loud, urging the fight on. But then there was Owner Zeff’s irregular _thump-clunk, thump-clunk…_

“You stupid piece of shit, don’t harass the law. I ain’t gonna bail you out if you get arrested.”

The commanding officer cut in before anybody else. “You are the owner? I’d suggest firing this employee this instant – “

“None of your business. What’re you disturbing my customers for.”

“Eh? Oh. We’re here to question everybody if they’ve seen this girl.” He couldn’t hear it, but he could imagine the sound of unfurling paper, imagine his picture of a time when he had long hair and a hunted look, imagine the bounty, imagine the words…

“We would also like to search your establishment. There is reason to believe that this person has been around this area.”

A long silence. Was it the bounty? Or the words ‘only alive’ that intrigued him? He would take them down here, open up the panel, reveal that, yes, here he is, all packaged up for you...only they weren’t gonna find him here because he was going to move _now_ , and he took one step and heard an even, low, “No.”

“Excuse me?” said the marine. Patty was probably pushing his ingratiating smile to a smug one.

“No,” Owner Zeff repeated. “My customers are here to enjoy a meal, not get interrogated. Once they pay and leave, you can question them as long as you like. Search their ships, if you want. But my cooks are busy with food that needs to be served, and if you want to stay here, you better get a table and buy something or wait until lunch hour is over.”

Sanji had to strain his ears for what came next and worried that it was too quiet to hear, but then the marine started to reply, cold and low, “And what makes you think you can order me around?”

“I can’t. But you can order your men to surround the Baratie and watch for anybody sneaking out. Nice thing about a floating restaurant, no back alleys. Don’t you think?”

Another long pause. The sort of pause that sounded like a fight was brewing, a war, outright bloodshed.

“...Surround the ship, men. Question anybody leaving and search their ship before they sail off. Don’t overlook a single person.” And then the march of boots, getting fainter…

He almost collapsed on his knees, but that _thump-clunk_ and Patty’s “Excuse us for the disruption, everybody! Feel free to enjoy your meal!” reminded him that the ship was _surrounded,_ and he scrabbled back into the figurehead-ship and fitted the panel back into place.

Lunch usually ended generously at two, but that was two hours away. Sanji curled up in his seat and watched the panel, but his own traitorous mind wandered off and he soon fell asleep…

He was a light sleeper by necessity, and so the clomp of boots down the ladder woke him up, got his heart beating as he instinctively looked for an escape route. But. Oh yeah. He was trapped.

“Just ropes and boxes here,” Owner Zeff introduced over the entwined _clomp-clomps._ “A bit of rat poison, just in case. Far away from the food. Bit of munitions to protect ourselves too.”

“Open the crates. You two, make sure there’s no one hiding in the corners.”

“Not many places to hide,” Owner Zeff drawled, and this stupid shithead, they were going to find him, did you think they’d never dealt with hidden rooms before? They’d check the walls carefully and then, and then.

The sounds of footsteps, coming closer. Sanji clapped his hands over his mouth, trying to keep from barfing up his heart. Closer. Closer. Running his fingertips on the boards, the floor. The marine was loud but Sanji was louder, with his whimpering breath and watering eyes and shivering hands, his bones knocking against his skin, his brain whirring so hard it would liquefy, his stomach bubbling like a volcano, even his hair had to be too loud, the way it prickled and stood, brushing against everything around it, wood, clothes, air…

The boots went by.

He was probably dead now, his heart hanging from his teeth and his brain from his ears, but the boots passed and he could feel his breath over his hands and the boots reported nothing and they were going above deck once more and he was still here, not captured, not chained, not anything, and it took him a while to even remember how to move, but he pressed his ear against the panel, just in case, and then opened it up, crept his way out.

Empty. A little messier, and he ought to be prepared for someone hiding somewhere, but empty.

Voices above, but they were rough and familiar. Too loud. He stepped on the ladder and pushed the hatch open a crack, scanning what ocean he could for the tell-tale sails.

There was the back end of one, moving away but still in sight. Not great. But he could stick by the walls and be in the kitchen in a flash, it was possible, they wouldn’t see him, so he pushed himself the rest of the way up and crouched to make sure the hatch didn’t slam.

Nobody in the kitchen quite yet. It sounded like the marines had dragged every employee out into the restaurant proper in their investigation, and now they were lounging around and complaining about it. Owner Zeff was...ah. There, shouting at them to clean the tables before the dinner shift. Not much time.

He found a potato sack and shook the remaining potatoes out on the floor. Fridge was huge, well-stocked. Not many things ready to eat, but there were some fruits; apples, oranges, things that could keep for a few days until he got on land or another ship.

He had just drawn a knife from the rack when from behind: “That’s not a weapon, shitty eggplant.”

Ah. Owner Zeff. Sanji whirled around, knife pointed at the ready, but now his back was against the cabinets. Owner Zeff kept his arms crossed. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Like Sanji was just embarrassing himself.

Sanji tried to sneer. “Anything can be a weapon, old man.”

“Not that,” he said, nodding over to the knife. “Take a gun. You know how to shoot?”

“Yeah,” Sanji said, more out of shock than anything else. And then: “Why’d you do that?”

“Dunno what the fuck you’re talking ‘bout.” And it really looked like that, his face as humorless as it ever was. Like Sanji was turning in his resignation instead of stealing everything he could for the road. Like...he was someone who deserved to be treated like an actual employee.

This feeling was familiar, dangerously so, even though Owner Zeff was so, so different, hard lines and harder wrinkles, even though he was sure he had never seen a genuine smile here at all, it was treacherously familiar, and he felt his heart welling against his ribs, pushing against his lungs, and it was so hard to breathe and dammit, why, why again, couldn’t he see that he was nothing but trouble and bad luck? And Sanji hated him because he was so _stupid,_ just seeing this scrappy runt and accepting him so openly, but mostly he hated himself because he was falling for it again, falling so hard, and he would readily give up his heart, his life, just to stay here, he would dole out his devotion for the rent and sell his soul to cover anything else. He should know better. He had to know better, because if he didn’t learn from his mistakes then he’d just repeat the same tragedy, over and over, he knew all of this, and yet.

And yet.

His heart squeezed and pumped the tears out of his eyes, clogged his throat with so much air, and he knelt to the floor and curled up around the knife and cried and cried, clung on to Owner Zeff when he tugged the knife away, and cried and cried and cried, maybe the other cooks started crowding the door, hearing all the noise he was making, but for once they didn’t comment, just watched as he melted into a puddle on the floor and, dammit, he was tamed.

* * *

“You call that _cooking?”_

“Ow! _Fuck!_ Lay off, shitty gramps!”

“I’d disown the kid who gave birth to you.”

Sanji pushed at the calloused hand pinching his ear and backed away. “Fucking, how would _you_ do it, then!”

Well, first, by holding the spatula more like a tennis racket than a dagger, so that he wasn’t fucking stabbing the pan. Also folding the eggs gently, instead of scraping them around until it was all in little pieces. Cooking the tomatoes and eggs _separate_ first, before mixing them. Adding garlic along with salt. And then plate it gracefully, a nice even circle, and then…

“Taste,” Zeff said, and he did and fuck, it was a _lot_ better. Goddamn. He fucking hated it. But Zeff laughed at the way his eyes sparked, and then he couldn’t even make a smartass retort because he was too busy trying not to look embarrassed, and all he could do was memorize everything Zeff had done out of spite.

But in the end, the old man was a cook. Sanji could live with him knowing a lot about food. But...

“You fight like a goddamn animal. Why the fuck did you _bite_ him?”

Sanji was leaning forward, a tissue blooming red around his nose. His other hand held a pack of ice to his cheek. He didn’t get to see what happened to the other guy, but he did manage to hear what sounded like someone raising hell for a few short minutes outside. “Biting hurts ‘em,” he maintained, swallowing down the thick taste of blood.

“Yeah? How much did it hurt when he fuckin’ walloped your head, huh?”

Zeff clunked his way from the sink and held out a damp towel to replace the tissue. Sanji held the ice pack up with a shoulder and made the switch as quickly as he could, before anything could drip on the kitchen floor. He stared sullenly at its unmarred surface.

“First of all, no kid can take out a grown man, so don’t fucking do that again until your balls drop. Second, if you’re gonna fight someone, don’t put your goddamn head in their reach, shithead. All you’re doing is letting them get in a punch in the most vital spot. You fucking moron.”

“It worked before,” Sanji bit back, which was mostly true. Zeff snorted.

“Sure, against other shitty brats. There’s a reason nobody actually fights like a savage idiot, kid. You wanna fight, you gotta work against your shitty instincts.”

Sanji started to rub flakes of dried blood out of his nose. It throbbed in complaint, but he continued on anyways, just to get the smell out at least. “Yeah?” he threw out, like throwing down a glove.

“Yeah,” Zeff answered back, and suddenly Sanji found another chore added to his day, only it was kicking, over and over, one leg and then the other, until both of them wobbled at the knees, and it was _stupid,_ just the same exact move, but then he’d watch Zeff do the same thing and he’d look so big and powerful that it hurt just looking, and when could _he_ do that, without effort, with barely a thought? And he kicked and kicked and kicked, imagining that it was Zeff’s face in front of him so he could kick all the harder.

But Zeff knowing more about fighting was okay too. He’d had more time to get stronger. Sanji could live with that, as long as he could catch up and maybe beat his ass.

And then came the one thing he couldn’t just ignore.

“All Blue.”

Zeff looked up, eyes immediately snapping to the book Sanji held in his hands. He flicked the stove off and pulled at his mustache. “Who the fuck said you could stick your grubby hands in my room?”

“You were looking for All Blue,” Sanji accused, and something in his eyes must have sparked, because Zeff didn’t immediately snatch his journal back. Just stood, looking down at him, and looking far into someplace else. “What do you know about it? Did you…?”

Zeff closed his eyes. “No. But it exists.”

Something thrummed through Sanji’s body and settled in his guts, a squirmy thing that couldn’t keep still. “How?”

Zeff reached out for the book now, and it was easily slipped out of Sanji’s grasp. He set it on the counter and went back to the stove. “When you ever go to the Grand Line, you’ll see it’s not so impossible to believe after all.”

He believed in All Blue. And he set sail to look for it and came back, unsuccessful but undeterred, and all of a sudden Zeff resonated with him, or maybe he was resonating with Zeff, and he stared up at him with the same sort of childish loathing, but now he knew that it was the sort of loathing that came with absolute longing, a desperate desire to have, or to be. To grow into his shoes and inhabit his life and experience his knowledge and strength and capability and just feel _fulfilled._

Zeff was his ideal. And he fucking hated it, really felt his insides broil in contempt, because _this was love_ and he was stuck fast, too far in to even possibly escape.

* * *

The bathroom door banged against its hinges, and it sounded like Zeff was probably going to break it down soon. “Oi, shithead! How long a break you even need?! Customers are waiting!”

It felt like he had been lying down on the floor for years, curled up and trying not to panic but failing because he was pretty sure he was actually dying, because what else could buckets of blood mean? Everything ached all over, his back and stomach and head, and he wasn’t sure why his first reaction was to lock himself in and wait for it to maybe stop because now he might be actually dying and he should have just asked for help.

Sanji managed to cut in between the banging to shout back, “I’m opening the door, but don’t come in!” He took the sudden silence as an affirmative answer and pushed himself up on his feet to unbar the latch.

Zeff’s face looked as craggy as ever through the small crack he peeked through, but the pinch in his brow exposed something under the rock. Sanji made sure that all that could be seen was a sliver of his face, that there wasn’t someone else in the hall. With a stiff breath, he mumbled, “I’m...bleeding...”

“What!” Zeff pushed against the door, but when Sanji pushed back, he laid off. But he didn’t take his hand off the doorknob. He squared his jaw and said, “Where?”

It was a hard question to answer. But Sanji’s hesitance seemed to be good enough, because Zeff’s face suddenly had an expression that was absolutely foreign to him, one of absolute and unmitigated terror. It was like watching a rock slide, and seeing that was almost as bad as dying. Zeff pulled the door closed and said, “Wait here.”

After latching the door again, Sanji tried to clean himself up because even if he died, he didn’t want to look like shit with all this dried blood. It would probably be good to put his pants on as well, but the thing was too uncomfortable to wear, and so he tried to clean up the floor and just sat in the tub.

The knock came a few minutes later, politely this time, waited for him as he opened the door a few inches. But instead of Zeff, there was a woman, a _stranger,_ and Sanji shut the door again.

“It’s alright, I’m here to help!” said the woman, knocking on the door again. Then there was an uneven step and then a more familiar banging, and Zeff bellowed, “Open the door, jackass, she’s not gonna hurt you!” After that, there was a muttered admonition and the sound of a smack, and then Zeff added, “Uh. She knows what to do. So just listen to her, shi – kid.” Sanji heard him step away again, listened for how many steps he took and exhaled when the number was small.

“I’m just going to give you a few things, okay?” said the woman, softly. “And then I’ll just talk you through it. I’m not going to come in. I’ll just put my hand through so you can take them. Okay? You’ll be fine.”

The way she talked, like coaxing a wild animal, was inherently untrustworthy. Her voice too high and too gentle to be taken at face value. But Zeff was still there, and he could stop her if she tried to do something, so Sanji hid behind the door and turned the knob.

A slender arm made its way inside, holding some neatly-folded pants and underwear, and something that looked like a rag on top. He took it all and latched the door shut again. The clothes had come from his room, but the rag he’d never seen before. It was a bit thick and soft, looked like it had been stuffed with cotton and then sown up. There were also some safety pins underneath it.

“Pin the rag to your underwear. Make sure that it covers from front to back, okay? I have another one here too for when you need to change it.” Sanji was already working to follow her instructions, but she was still talking. He tried to listen. “You’ll have to wash them clean with cold water and boil them. The blood will flow for perhaps a week, and it’ll happen every month, understand? For the cramps, you can drink tea or put something warm over it.”

The rag pressed against him, something foreign between his legs, and suddenly he wasn’t sure how he should walk. He pulled at it, first down, then up, tugged it until it felt something akin to comfortable. And this would happen every month? It was an inconceivable idea.

“What else...oh, when you clean them, you’ll have to replace the cotton. On the inside. I can also teach you how to make some...”

“Why is this happening,” he finally whispered back, clasping his arms around his stomach just so he’d stop picking at his pants. The woman outside hesitated.

“It’s womanhood, dear. You’re growing up.”

That wasn’t the end of it either. His chest was growing, though not as big as he’d seen, but still noticeable under his suits. They were like odd pustules and they hurt and he wouldn’t mind cutting them off if he could, but all he could do was wrap them up tight and ignore how short of breath he was. It felt like he was growing out of his clothes daily. His voice wasn’t getting any lower. It still sounded like a child’s compared to the other cooks’. Which was just unfair, because if he had to grow up, shouldn’t he sound like it? But the solution came to him serendipitously when he caught sight of a smoking customer, and he invested in cigarettes despite the complaints of every single staff on board. And it was awful. Fucking revolting. But it made his voice sound more like it should, and he kept it up until he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

And then there was the blood.

Nobody really knew how to help him, not even Zeff, so he had to deal with all this himself. But it just felt like he was growing into some disgusting creature, something too gangly and too thin and too sweaty and too graceless, and nobody else seemed to have as much trouble as him. Everything just hurt, all the time. He didn’t understand how anybody could live through this. He hated that everybody else was able to live through this. Every time he looked into a woman’s eyes, they betrayed nothing about the absolute horror of life, and he just loathed the way they smiled, the way they walked, no slouching or shuffled plodding, the way they spoke with melody, the way they could be happy when he just felt miserable, and women were magical creatures, they had to be. Something miraculous, terrifyingly so, and he couldn’t look at them anymore without choking up and mumbling.

This, the staff knew well enough, and they gave him hell for it, called him lover boy, little Romeo, a shy little artichoke. He was at the point where he could comfortably kick their asses though, so it was no big deal.

But in the end, the feeling of his body in pain, working against him, all of it was familiar, even if it came in odd forms now. And he got used to it as he had done before. And so it was, for years and years.

At least, until a cannonball hit Zeff’s office.

* * *

In all the commotion (a combination of a cannonball crashing through the Baratie, him pissing off a marine and beating the shit out of him and also threatening to kill him, a staff-wide argument, some sort of demon man coming in, Patty beating the shit out of _him_ and then throwing him out, the resulting cheers from the audience…), Sanji snuck back into the kitchen and drew out a wok. None of the cooks would have missed a fight for anything, so he was alone; but it wouldn’t stay that way for long and so he fried some rice real quick and slunk out the back door.

The demon man was still sprawled out on the deck like a murder scene. Patty had made sure to toss him off to the side, out of sight from the front door. It was a convenient place to deliver an impromptu meal.

The man turned at the sound of his steps, tensed at the smell of food. Didn’t move, even when Sanji set the plate down by his head and leaned back against the railing.

Sanji took this chance to slip out a cigarette. “It’ll get cold, y’know.”

The man moved, then, but only to lean on his shaking arms. He managed to get on his knees. “Why?”

“I know what it’s like to be called a demon.”

He spat at that, a phlegm of blood, right on the deck. He wasn’t quite looking at him, but Sanji felt that sunken glare. “What, you think you know me? That we’re the _same?”_ He tagged a harsh laugh at the end of that word, the sort of sound that accompanied broken kneecaps and snapping necks, a supercilious sort of sound despite his current position.

Sanji glanced at the spot of blood with a grimace and turned back to the sea. “Nah. I would’ve kicked your ass if Patty didn’t beat me to it. Fucking, threatening to shoot the guy you’re asking food from? Are you a moron?”

The man took long, shaky breaths. Wiped something off his face.

“Why?”

Sanji shrugged. “If you’re hungry, then you should eat.”

And, as though he had been waiting for permission all along, the man fell upon the plate, almost forgoing the fork. Anything that he dropped, he snatched it up again with animalistic dexterity. It was only a quarter of the way in that he stopped, clutching the plate like a life boat, trying to keep food in his mouth while just crying, unrestrained, almost poking his eye with the fork when he tried to physically hold the tears back. He looked unattractive, on the verge of gagging, rice hanging off his lips and getting drowned in snot and tears, but he mumbled out, “’S good...it’s so good...” and Sanji couldn’t keep his smile in.

“Hey! Looks like I found a good cook!”

Sanji’s smile dropped as he looked up, seeing a straw hat and an idiot grin. It was a boy he only vaguely recognized as the face behind the cannonball, swinging his legs over the deck above them. “Wanna join my crew?”

* * *

“I’m gonna be the pirate king,” said the chore boy, looking really stupid with his big dumb grin and shit.

“Well, pirate king. You’ve managed to piss off every single cook on this ship and now they’ve dumped you on me. So. What’s something you can actually do competently that doesn’t involve breaking everything you touch and eating anything in reach?”

The idiot frowned for a moment. “I can fight, and I can stretch!”

“Okay. You’re scrubbing the deck. Here’s the mop, here’s the bucket. See you in a month.”

“Wait! You know that old guy, right?”

Sanji hissed out a stream of smoke with a dull expression.

“D’ya know what he likes? I really can’t stay for that long and I’m thinking, if I give him something he really _really_ wants, then he’d let me go!”

This time, Sanji spewed the smoke straight into the idiot’s face. He coughed and squinted his eyes shut, but didn’t seem to be too bothered by it. “Joke’s on you, that old shit hates everything.”

“What? Why? That’s dumb. Does he got trouble pooping?” Sanji almost spat his cigarette overboard and only managed to save it with creative use of his tongue, unfortunately swallowing it instead. “Maybe if I help him poop he’d let me go?”

“ _No,_ ” Sanji forced out between hacking coughs. He could feel the burns all the way down his throat, saw the world blur as he tried to regain the little breath he had nowadays. He leaned hard against the railing to cover up the world going black for a second and finally managed to wheeze, “What the fuck. Just clean the deck and don’t break anything.”

By the end of the day, the idiot broke the mop _and_ the bucket, and Sanji was slightly impressed underneath all the fury.

* * *

The idiot had friends. Or crewmates, more accurately. They came in every day to order the cheapest items on the menu and they stayed docked after closing time. They were, without fail, the rowdiest customers, and they somehow managed to make Luffy act even _worse_ whenever they were around, something entirely unwelcome. One of them hated mushrooms. One of them kept ordering beer, even after being told _every time_ that they didn’t have his filthy grog on the fucking menu. One of them, well...she made him stammer, could get him to flinch with a touch, sent him reeling whenever she focused her voice on him with that come hither tone, the total confidence in her eyes, the bold way she wore her skirts...he had to avoid her as much as he could, or risk giving away the entire Baratie to her.

The first one he named ‘Idiot One,’ because his nose actually fucking looked like the actual fucking number. The second would have been ‘Idiot Two’ if it weren’t for his green fucking hair; Sanji had no choice but to dub him ‘Green Idiot.’ The third, he couldn’t name. He knew how dangerous naming her would be. Like naming stray animals, but having no room at home to keep them.

He met them properly when he tried to drag Luffy back to work, and Idiot One clapped an arm around his shoulder and said, “So I heard you’re our new cook!”

Sanji leveled a glare at Luffy before sending it towards the miraculous nose. “You heard wrong.” With that, he unhooked the arm and took Luffy by the ear. “Enjoy your meal.”

Despite what clearly should have been the end of the conversation, they kept drawing him over to their table. And, dammit, he _had_ to go there because the other cooks were too goddamn lazy to help outside the kitchen and his only co-worker kept slacking off with his idiot friends. Whenever he strode over to grab Luffy to do something else, they’d start up a conversation, tease him, ask him prodding questions that he evaded with all the professionalism he was taught.

“C’mon, where’s your spirit of adventure?” Idiot One asked, clinging on his arm in a way that was probably supposed to be charming. “You’ve got a young man’s heart, right? Do you really wanna just stay in this place the rest of your life?”

“Yes,”Sanji gritted out, slipping his arm away. He was getting quite good at that. “And even if I went traipsing off to do whatever the hell, I wouldn’t go join idiots like _you._ ”

“Aww...you think I’m an idiot?” said the lady, pouting exaggeratedly, and Sanji tried to apologize while clamping a hand over his mouth at the same time and tripped on a chair in his rush to get away.

* * *

After a sudden attack, a lot of broken ribs, a few burns, almost dying from poison gas, watching someone _else_ almost die of poison gas, and then a whole bunch of other shit, Sanji went and joined the idiots. He told Luffy as soon as he woke up, and the kid went and smiled at him, a sight that went sour in his mind. “But if I want to leave at any point, you let me leave,” he added, and Luffy frowned a bit at that.

“Why would you wanna leave?”

“It’s not like I will,” he lied. “But I want the option open.”

Luffy hummed and nodded his head. “Let’s get going, then!”

It wasn’t as easy talking to Zeff.

The old man couldn’t stand, not with his peg leg broken, and so he sat with his typical countenance; which just made talking all the harder, considering that his typical countenance was a constant fuck-off. Sanji pulled a seat across from him, set his hands on his knees.

“I’m leaving. Just letting you know. Think you can keep this place floating without me?”

Zeff grunted. “We’ve been floating since before you came here. Honestly, without your dumb ass around to start shitty fights, we’ll probably be better off.”

His mouth stiffened. “Sorry.”

At that, Zeff’s eyebrows curved up a little, and he reached over, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Come back whenever you want, shitty eggplant.” Sanji squirmed, fiddled with his fingers, but Zeff added a solemn, “I mean it,” and he could just about shrivel up and die.

“Yeah,” he choked out, already crying, even as he knew he would never return. Not unless he wanted to bring another Don Krieg to a place that didn’t deserve his own bad luck.

* * *

His first job as a pirate was to get back the lady who defected.

“Why? Sounds like she took your money and ran off. I get if you want your shit back, but she betrayed you, y’know?”

Luffy looked childishly stern. “Nami’s my friend! Friends don’t run off!”

“Uh. Exactly.”

But Luffy didn’t seem to see the inherent contradiction in his own words and they just kept barreling forward until they tripped their way into an entire island-based criminal operation manned by fish. And in the middle of it all, he ended up fighting for the very person he had advocated against.

He had never really fought in a team, honestly. He was on his own as a kid and at the Baratie he mostly fought with the cooks rather than _with_ the cooks. His new crew obviously had some history. Enough to understand each other. And he was left stumbling along, trying to catch up. And it probably wasn’t worth fighting, not knowing any of these people, not willing to die for anybody. And he would rather just leave the crew than struggle for a cause he didn’t have his whole heart in, even if the history of the island left it bleeding vigorously on the ground.

But. Here he was, with battle scars, broken ribs, collapsed lungs; here he was, absorbing all the relief, all the joy, all the unbridled _jubilation_ of the island’s people, getting thanked by gracious tears, getting honored with a feast, getting showered with a euphoria that he couldn’t resist.

As he recovered in bed, Nami sat by him and said, “You didn’t even know me.”

“Yeah.” He had the quilt pulled up to his shoulders, to cover up the fact that the doctor had confiscated his bindings and left nothing but lectures in return. Asshole also took his cigarettes, but he tried not to think about that now, tried to focus on this face radiant with the atmosphere of the whole island. The look she gave him was beautiful for its rarity.

She interlaced her fingers together and rested her chin there, letting her hair fall in front of her face. “Thanks. Really.”

Sanji very slowly turned his back on her and covered his face. “Okay,” he said, and then, “Oh my god. I mean. Thanks. Wait. Uh. You’re welcome? Shit.”

“Hey, don’t I get a thanks too?” Usopp complained from the door, and Nami rolled her eyes but smiled and thanked him too, and then Luffy was suddenly climbing through the window with food bulging in his cheeks and more food in his hands which all promptly fell everywhere when he accidentally knocked a hand against a bedpost and he screamed a muffled protest which just made the food in his mouth also fall everywhere and Nami hit him for messing up someone’s _house_ and Usopp said that it was probably okay since Luffy was the hero anyways which just started an argument on basic human decency, none of which Luffy participated in because he was too busy eating everything he dropped off the floor and Zoro, who had been sleeping off his recent surgery, woke up and announced that he had to start working out and were there any weights around? And the doctor appeared, as if summoned by the klaxon call of extremely poor health decisions, and ended up strapping Zoro to the bed while everybody else laughed.

And this was so strange, so very different. So open and carefree and just plain weird, like the kids he saw back home, except he was part of it now and he tried to hate it but couldn’t think of any reasons why.

He was going to feel bad when he left.


	3. Chapter 3

“Just a question. But do you guys usually go around saving villages?”

It wasn’t long after Cocoyashi. Their sails were pointed straight to the Grand Line, which was exciting and all, but Sanji couldn’t help but think, goddammit, that doctor didn’t give my fucking bindings back. Not that there was much to see, but he hunched anyways.

Luffy looked over from the sheep’s head, twisting his neck at an odd angle. “Hm?”

“It’s just, you’re calling yourselves pirates. But do you actually do what pirates usually do, is what I’m wondering. Like, what have you done, exactly?”

“Well,” Usopp started, scratching at his nose, “they _did_ chase off Klahadore from my village for me.”

“And I guess we also chased off Buggy from that other place,” Nami added, barely looking up from her newspaper.

“Zoro and I beat up a marine!” Luffy called back, demonstrating with a punch.

“Except everybody in town wanted him gone anyways. The other marines _saluted_ us for that.” After saying his piece, Zoro laid his head back and continued his nap.

Sanji leaned back against the wall. So. It was just a regular thing, then. “I just wanna make things clear, here; I’m not interested in doing charity work. That’s not what you hired me for.”

“’Hired?’” Usopp muttered over his bubbling beakers of myriad colors.

“You can count on me to feed you and help out around the ship, but I’m not about to stick out my neck for any random yokel we come across.”

Luffy just smiled, like he knew something Sanji didn’t. “You stuck your neck out for Nami, though!”

“Yeah, and I broke _all my fucking ribs._ ” Sanji almost gestured at his chest, but thought better of it and instead crossed his arms. “It’s not fun.”

Zoro opened an eye, expression mild but tone judgmental. “So you’re not gonna fight?”

Sanji matched his stare and blew out smoke. “I’m just the cook.”

This time, Nami looked up with a perfectly bright smile. “Wait, is that an option? ‘Cause like, I’m just the navigator, so I’d like to stay out of fights too.”

“And I’m just the sniper, so – oh.” Usopp lowered his hand, fretfully glancing towards Luffy. “Um, can I be something else?”

“ _Nobody’s_ getting out of fights,” Zoro’s voice boomed, like a sword thumping a rhythm against the ground. “If we’re in trouble, everybody has to pull their own weight. That’s what you signed up for.” The glare he sent Sanji was particularly sharp. He could probably use his eyes as swords. Sanji just held his cigarette to his mouth and looked out to sea.

“Eh, it’s fine,” Luffy said, and he rolled backwards off the figurehead and on the deck with a dull _thud._ It sounded somewhat painful, but he just crossed his legs underneath him and swiveled to smile at everybody else. “I can fight enough for everyone! No problem.”

Zoro opened his mouth to retort, but Usopp cut in with a frenetic, “Good! Sounds great! I’ll be counting on you, Luffy – not that I can’t do it myself, I totally can, it’s just if I use my full power then I gotta recharge for like twenty days and nights, which is just inconvenient, I know, but we should probably just save me for the _really_ important stuff, is what I’m saying,”

“I’m also not planning on sticking around, really,” Sanji added. “This is just a temporary arrangement. Just so that there’s no misunderstandings or anything.”

Zoro stared at Sanji for a while, and then turned towards Luffy. “ _Why_ did you pick this guy up again?”

“He’s a good guy!”

And then, quite suddenly, before Zoro could say some sort of snide remark, Nami jumped out of her chair and shouted, “Luffy has a bounty!” and everything was forgotten in favor of this landmark news. It was a pretty good bounty, for such a recent criminal, but Sanji couldn’t bring himself to match Luffy’s pride or Usopp’s excitement or even Nami’s worry. Thirty million was only a fraction of his current bounty. Not even half of it.

He didn’t mention this, though. After all, he was just the cook.

* * *

 

“I’m just the cook,” he complained, but he struggled and kicked his way to the execution stand anyways, and why was the fucking captain fucking in this mess in the first place? _How_ did he even get in this fucking mess in the first place? Sanji had the feeling that he was going to be babysitting Luffy (the fucking _captain)_ and he didn’t sign up for this at all, didn’t sign up for running after a moron, getting him out of the trouble that he probably caused – and then lightning struck, and he had to wonder if maybe the universe itself was babysitting Luffy, maybe this kid had a higher power by his side; who even knows _why,_ but maybe this charmed child could cancel out even his own bad luck. But that led to dangerous thoughts, stupid thoughts, and he shoved them aside.

“I’m just a cook,” he declared and walked away from all the speculation. Who really cared about some old man in a whale, what he was doing to the whale, what the fate of the whale even was? The important part was that they were _in a whale,_ and he would like to get out, get back under a _real_ sky, sail over a _real_ sea. The artificiality of the world around him made him feel itchy and the irony of being inside a goddamn stomach was pissing him off, so let’s just get outta here already. (He ended up learning the whale’s tragic backstory anyways, sympathized with him over waiting and waiting and waiting for someone, got angry that he was sympathizing with a _whale._ Fuck.)

“I’m just a cook,” he hissed at Luffy. And furthermore, they were all just pirates, and who were they to get all wrapped up in a goddamn conspiracy plot involving some kingdom? How was it in any way a good idea to become targets of an assassin group for a, for an admittedly pretty princess, but still practically a stranger? At least the majority was on his side: Nami was kneeling, hands clasped together, whispering, ‘think of the money, think of the money,’ while Usopp had simply shut down in a miserable puddle on the floor. Luffy just laughed and said, “It’ll work out!” and in his despair, Sanji turned to Zoro for some level-headed support only to find him already training for the future. Still, when it came to drinks, he made Vivi the same elaborate ones he gave Nami. (And then when she thanked him with that modest smile, he scrambled backwards and tripped down the stairs, and fuck.)

“I’m just the cook,” he explained slowly to the dull-headed, moss-covered rock down on shore. Cooks didn’t hunt, except when hunting for deals – the actual tracking down of ingredients was someone else’s job. But the way the shitty moron gave that supercilious smirk, the way he turned and waved lazily behind him like he was saying “Just leave it to me,” left Sanji jumping off the ship because no, he _wasn’t_ going to leave it to him, fuck off with that bullshit, he didn’t come all this way to get looked down on. One snail call later and he had to sit back and wonder at how his life decisions had led him to talking to one of the Warlords, lying _outrageously_ to one of the Warlords, and fighting off an otter and a vulture, one of which had a _gun_ (and it wasn’t the one with actual _hands_ ), when all he wanted was to kill some fucking huge thing to shove it in Zoro’s obnoxious face. And, sitting back further, hadn’t he just let a good opportunity slip through his fingers? Didn’t he just lose the chance to get himself out of this ridiculous situation? “Hey, Crocodile. Let’s make a deal.” And then no more worrying about assassins coming after him, no more worrying about a country he had never seen before, none of that. It would have even been a step up, considering the way this current crew was. But he hadn’t even considered it until now, when it was too late. As though it hadn’t even been an option at the time. And when he walked out of the woods and saw everybody _burned,_ and some sort of giant, ugly, melted _thing_ in the middle of the clearing, and fucking _giants,_ he felt. Ashamed? That he missed everything again. But he shouldn’t care. And he shouldn’t have cared when Vivi ran and hugged him when he showed the Eternal Pose he picked up, or the way Usopp slapped his back or anything. He shouldn’t care. (And for the record, his catch was bigger.)

“I’m just the cook,” he mumbled, head bowed down as he gazed at the feverish Nami, surely the first victim of his bad luck, and she was going to die, and he had seen people die before but never slow, never prolonged, he had never had to see death... _happening,_ and of all people, why Nami? Why the one with near supernatural skill when it came to the weather, to reading the ocean? Why the one who had only just recently gotten her freedom, hadn’t even enjoyed it to the fullest yet? “I can make sure everybody eats healthy, but...I’m useless here,” Sanji admitted. Which hurt most of all, being useless. Like he was just a kid again and all he could do was get shuffled around from place to place, unanchored. In the end, their only plan of action was to sail around randomly and hope, which was hardly a plan at all, couldn’t even be called a scheme, and Sanji shut himself in the kitchen, preparing himself for what was to come.

“I’m just the cook,” he said and smiled, right before kicking Luffy up and over, right before a metric ton of snow slammed into him like a fucking sea king, right before he simply blacked out.

* * *

 

“You didn’t have to come back for me.”

“Huh? Why?”

“It couldn’t have been easy to find me. Nami-san really needed to get here as fast as possible. You were wasting valuable time.”

“Looking for you wasn’t a waste!”

“I’m just saying, it was reckless and risky – “

“But now both of you are okay! It was worth it!”

“I’m saying she could’ve _died._ ”

“But she didn’t.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible...”

“Yup!”

He wanted to say that it had been his fault in the first place, even if he wasn’t the direct cause, that he had been trying so hard to make up for it and getting dug out hadn’t been part of his plan. He almost said that you’re doing something to me, Luffy, I don’t know how, but it must be you (it can’t be me, I have never been like this before, surely not) and I need to get away from you before you think I’m someone I’m not.

“Thanks.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

* * *

 

Back when someone’s life was literally at stake, a doctor seemed like a brilliant idea. Standing here now, in the newly-minted infirmary, he wondered if it was possible to jump ship and find some other crew to hide out in.

“Do you mind putting out your cigarette?” Chopper asked, stethoscope swinging around his neck.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“And sit on the bed, please.”

“So, uh, what do you need to see exactly?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the bed in a way that he was almost, but not quite, committed to sitting on it.

Chopper pushed a chair closer to the bedside and hopped on, giving him the perfect elevation to send him a soft look. “Sanji, I already know your biological sex.”

Sanji stopped breathing for a moment, partly because _he knew_ and partly because this tiny-ass raccoon just said ‘sex.’ “Uh.”

“I’m sorry to speak so frankly about it, but I thought it would be best to not dance around the issue. I assure you, I won’t tell anybody without your permission, and I certainly don’t want to make you uncomfortable; I’m here to help!”

Sanji managed to work his mouth and said, “How did you know?”

“Oh, um! It’s not your fault!” Chopper said, looking like he was trying to wave his arms reassuringly but really just flailing around. “You look very, um, manly! Or, I mean, androgynous, if that’s what you’re going for! Oh shoot, I shouldn’t have said, I messed up, I’m sorry!”

“Okay, okay.” Sanji set his hands on Chopper’s shoulders just so he would stop circling on the chair. What happened to him being the one freaking out? “I get it. It’s fine. But you didn’t answer my question.”

Chopper blinked. “Oh. Well, I can smell your hormones.”

Ah. Well, that wouldn’t be a common problem. Unless, do Zoan types also get super senses? Probably should avoid them. (As though he could just somehow do that.)

“What’s your blood type?”

Sanji looked back down at Chopper, who was now holding a clipboard. “Huh? I. Don’t know.”

“Any history of illness in the family?”

“I dunno...”

“What about allergies to any medication?”

“I, uh, don’t think so?”

Chopper paused in his scribbling to give him a look. And despite those ridiculously large, ridiculously sweet eyes, Sanji squirmed like he was under a hot light.

“I don’t know. Sorry,” he added helplessly.

“It’s alright,” Chopper replied, slipping the paper off the board and filing it away in a drawer. “Most of you didn’t really know either. The only ones who could answer were Vivi, Usopp, and Zoro.”

Zoro? “Wait. The mosshead? The one with the swords,” he clarified when he caught Chopper’s bewildered stare. “The idiot who only has muscles and booze on his mind? The moron who gets lost on a straight road? That guy?”

Chopper threw his hooves up and looked to the ceiling for support. “Can’t you just call him by his name?”

“No.”

Sanji sulked as Chopper went through the physical examination (it was better than feeling uncomfortably self-conscious), because it wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t fair for Zoro, of all people, _Zoro,_ to have this knowledge of himself, this history, when he was so intent on killing himself every day. It just felt unfair that Zoro knew what he was doing and where he was going and where he was from when Sanji was so sure that they had been the same, wanderers with little ties to anything or anyone, but Zoro had been wandering with a purpose, with that dream, for a long time now, it was obvious. And Sanji had been simply wandering. It felt like he was losing, and who wanted to lose to a goddamn idiot? (And, if he thought deeper, wasn’t this less about Zoro and more about…)

“Um, Sanji?”

Sanji shook himself back down to reality and luckily did not have to acknowledge any sort of too-intimate touch whatsoever. Chopper was just measuring his pulse. “Yeah?

“So...I dunno if you’ve ever considered it, but...there are surgeries, you know? For, um, adjusting your body. Top surgery, for instance. It’ll be relatively simple even, since your, uh, breasts, aren’t that. Um.” Chopper stopped gesturing at his own chest and snapped his arms to his sides with military awkwardness.

Sanji was quiet for a moment, hands resting on his legs. “You can?”

“You’ll have to stop smoking for two weeks first – don’t make that face! You shouldn’t be smoking anyways!”

Sanji turned away and tisked in the sourest way possible. “Not worth it.” He was considering it.

There was an instinctual reluctance, a mental step back in disgust, and not just because of the smoking ban. The idea of modifying his body was just, it seemed, uncomfortably strange. Unnatural. Like he would be rejecting something given to him, or giving up. Giving up on what? Giving up on...his identity? (As if he didn’t make and throw away identities all the time.) Giving up on ever being himself again? (The thought made him gag – who would ever want to be who he was?) Giving up on...something.

But still.

“It’s your decision.” Chopper shrugged and pulled away to hop back to the floor. “I just wanted you to know the option is there.”

“The others,” he started, his voice sounding too dry, too raspy, “the others don’t have to know, right?”

Chopper stopped and looked up at him, tugged at his hat’s brim. “Well, they’ll know about the surgery, no real way around that. Even if we did it at night, you’ll have to take a break from strenuous activities for about two weeks, and there’s not really a way to explain that away. But they don’t have to know what the surgery is _for._ I could say...it’s for your ribs? Or lungs?”

Sanji leaned down and ruffled Chopper’s head. “You’re surprisingly devious, aren’t you.”

“Shut up~! I’m – I...is that good or bad…?”

“Let’s do it. No smoking for two weeks, right?” He tossed over his pack of cigarettes, and Chopper fumbled with it before managing to clap the box firmly between his hooves. He was running low, anyways; hadn’t had much chance picking any up since Loguetown. Was hoping to find some in Alabasta, but for now, he’d have to avoid the temptation. Just two weeks. So he could get rid of some ugly, painful lumps? That’s fine.

* * *

 

Alabasta was a fucking miserable place and he fucking hated everything about it (sorry, Vivi) but mostly he fucking hated himself.

“You really don’t have to torture yourself or anything, we’re all used to the smoke now,” Usopp said as they set up camp in the godforsaken sand under the cover of another cold-ass night. The freezing air reminded Sanji of cigarettes and this conversation wasn’t helping.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Usopp frowned and backed away. “You’d be way more attractive if it weren’t for your bad attitude.”

Sanji stiffened. The haze of withdrawal shifted and turned into a different sort of haze, and he dropped his bedroll and turned to Usopp. “You find me attractive?”

Usopp had frozen as well, and all Sanji could see was the back of his head. Several long seconds passed. And then Usopp scooped up his blankets and tripped his way out, hollering, “Luffy! You better have room for me!”

* * *

 

Usopp’s ability to run away was well-known to everybody in the crew, it’s just that Sanji didn’t realize this applied to the figurative application of running away as well. Not that a race against outright war was a good time to have a conversation about interpersonal relationships, but at the same time, maybe it was? Just to clarify things. That he wasn’t, couldn’t be, available; relationships weren’t an option to someone on the run who was planning on bailing this group any time now.

But whenever he approached Usopp, whether privately or in public, the boy would start laughing much too loud and announce, “If it isn’t my _good friend,_ Sanji! What can I do for my _buddy,_ who I am _best pals_ with, as it has been and will ever be in the future we have as _friends_ together!” And the resulting conversation would pelt him with so many ‘pals’ and ‘buds’ and ‘buckos’ and ‘friendaroos’ that Sanji could only mumble vaguely and bow out before the stares of the others threatened to force him to bury himself in the sand.

Well, that was probably good enough, probably.

* * *

 

“Oh, okay. You can join, then.”

Sanji joined in the chorus of “LUFFY!” and he wasn’t quite sure whether he was scolding along with the rest or plain exuding all the nervous energy he had just looking at, at _her,_ and oh god, the last time he saw her he had been pointing a gun at her head, he hoped that didn’t ruin her first impression of him, and wait, no, this was gonna be hell, because he was going to go through the clumsy and awkward shit _all over again_ and he may have gotten used to Nami and then gotten used to Vivi, but, no offense to them, this was _a whole ‘nother level._ This was.

A mature woman.

Robin was quiet. Robin asked for nothing. But it was her presence that was the problem, the knowledge that she was there, so much smarter than him, thinking about _something,_ and how in the world could he ever impress her? There was a dangerous aura about her that was beautiful all the same, and while Usopp interrogated her he delivered a snack. She waited until Usopp ate one before picking it up and when she smiled at him and said, “What a good cook we have,” as though she was already settled in, part of the whole, Sanji turned around, took one step, and fell through the open hatch into the bedroom.

Oh boy.

* * *

 

After a few more days at sea, Chopper did the surgery.

Draining the fluids wasn’t fun. Weeks of lugging around bags on his chest, which replaced what he had just gotten rid of and more. Slouching didn’t hide anything this time and Zoro spluttered at the sight and Luffy guffawed and Nami pounded the two of them to the deck.

“Don’t make fun of someone recovering from surgery, guys,” was Usopp’s less violent contribution, which was the most natural he had been after all the belligerent normality these past few days. Robin gave a smile, which was her common reaction (so common it was meaningless), but Sanji chose to interpret it as encouraging.

Eventually, the bags came off and eventually, he was allowed to cook and fight and smoke.

His chest looked. Odd. A little warped. Dead. The scars weren’t too apparent, but they glowed the red of recently removed stitches, like blood. Maybe this wasn’t right, maybe he made the wrong choice, shouldn’t it look healthier? More natural?

And yet his clothes fit much better. And yet he didn’t have to layer himself with jackets all the time. And yet when he picked Chopper up and held him close, he really did feel close, like there wasn’t anything stuck between them, getting in the way, and wasn’t that fucking wonderful?

“You’re way too happy.”

Sanji turned to Zoro and didn’t immediately scowl. “Hm?”

“You don’t slouch and you’re way too happy,” Zoro repeated and paused for a retort that never came. Sanji watched as he shifted from one leg to the other, scratched the back of his head. “It’s weirding me out,” he added, and when Sanji continued to say nothing, plodded a retreat.

And wasn’t it all worth it just to make Zoro uncomfortable?

* * *

 

He woke up suddenly in the embrace of clouds, and for a moment he wondered how the hell he could ever possibly be in Heaven before he remembered.

The skies were clear above. He sat up, wincing as the burns on his skin brushed up against fabric, against air, and then ended up back down again when Usopp noticed his movement and immediately tackled him, full of tears and snot.

“ _Holy freaking shit you’re alive, Sanji, Sanji, oh my god, thank you thank you thank you!”_

His whole world was clouds and Usopp for a few seconds, his arms automatically wrapping around Usopp’s back, before they were wrenched away from each other and Nami’s face appeared in Usopp’s place, looking distinctly displeased.

“What the fuck were you _thinking,_ you, you, _idiot!”_ she screamed, pounding at his chest. “That was so _stupid,_ you could’ve _died,_ and you’re so lucky you aren’t because I would’ve _killed you!”_

It sort of felt that she was killing him already, to be honest, but Chopper hurried over and pushed Nami out of the way. Sanji tried to tell him off, but could only wheeze. “Stop that! I’ve gotta treat him!”

Usopp, still kneeling nearby, bawled out, “J-just so you know, Sanji, you, you looked, _so_ freaking cool!”

“ _Don’t encourage him!”_ both Chopper and Nami snarled back.

Sanji tried to sit up again, but was pushed back down by Chopper. “How did I get here?” he murmured.

Nami looked towards Usopp, who was trying to wipe his nose clean. “He just...stayed behind and managed to fall back down with you,” she explained.

Sanji tilted his head to look at Usopp again and smiled. “That must’ve been really fucking cool. Wish I coulda seen that,” he breathed out, and then chuckled when Usopp fidgeted and coughed.

“W-well, I can always tell you the story of Usopp’s Epic Battle Against God to Save Sanji’s Life! There’s drama and suspense and action and – “

Despite agitating his burns, having Usopp pressed up against him had been, pleasant. In a way. Not just as an expression of gratitude, but the sensation of it, the intimate closeness, the brush of skin, the beat of his pulse, the smell of his hair. Sanji wanted to reciprocate, to let him know how amazing it was that he went back for him, just for him, and while he was at it, all the other amazing things about him, his inventiveness, his tenacity, everything, but for now, he gestured, waited until Usopp scooted closer, and set a hand on his knee. “Thanks,” he said with forceful sincerity, smiling as wide as he could.

He could tell his feelings came across when Usopp immediately shut up, covered his face, and nodded.

* * *

 

“Didn’t expect to see one of those rocks all the way up here,” Sanji commented. He had opted out of the ‘go inside a giant snake and steal all the gold shit’ expedition in favor of following Robin around. And suddenly, here he was, in a confrontation with the past.

Robin turned her face to him, eyes wide. “You know about the Poneglyphs?”

The sudden intensity of her words made him duck his head. “Uh, well...I’ve seen one before, yeah. But I never studied them or anything though...I don’t even know what they’re for.”

Robin kept her sharp gaze on him, considering his uncomfortable expression, the way he shuffled his feet against the dirt that had been so treasured up in the clouds. And finally, to his relief, smiled. “I’m curious as to how you had access to such dangerous knowledge, but I suppose this is a topic you would like to avoid.”

He hunched his shoulders and grimaced helplessly. “Sorry.”

“It is quite alright, Cook-san. It would be hypocritical of me to forcefully interrogate you on the details.” Her smile stayed, but the word ‘forcefully’ brought to mind certain uncomfortable thoughts about her power and the potential uses thereof. Sanji carefully squashed the resulting mental images.

“So, what are they for? If it’s okay to ask,” he added hastily.

Robin seemed to consider him for several long seconds, seemed to look him up and down and inside-out, look into his mind, look into his motivation, look into his past. It was only when she looked back to the chiseled rock that he could relax.

“They are the recorded history of a lost century,” she began. And with a low, hushed voice that threatened to be swallowed by the forest around them, Robin spoke of the fall of an unknown kingdom, the rise of the World Government, weapons that could destroy the world, secrets that the current regime would kill to keep secret.

Sanji shivered. What had Clover said? “It’s our All Blue?” How kind of him, how generous. To liken pure revolution, the pursuit of knowledge, to such a selfish desire.

“Thanks,” his voice rattled out, causing Robin to shoot him a look of concern. But he meant it. This was closure, wasn’t it? After a decade, he finally understood. Not that anything was any better; but there was a sick sort of melancholic pride to the memories now, rather than bitter frustration. They could have never done anything different. They had been locked in ever since they chose their devotion. Rebelled until the end.

And now, as if they had been drawn together, he stood by the side of the embodiment of their legacy, whether Robin knew it or not.

“If I may, do you happen to know what was written on your Poneglyph?”

Still. If only someone else had survived, just for this. “Nobody told me or wrote it down or anything. I was sorta studying something else, to be honest.”

“Then could you tell me where it is?”

He winced at that, slouched and slowed his steps. Robin fell into place beside him seconds later, and he felt her stare, felt her determination prying at him, not letting go.

“It’s gone,” he mumbled tersely. “Got blown up.”

“The material is quite indestructible. Perhaps if you told me the island it was on...”

“The name means nothing anymore. It’s...gone.”

Robin’s lips pressed tight at that. “Couldn’t you point out the area it would be on a map?”

“I was eight, nine,” he whispered, and boy was he getting close to spilling his life story anyways. “I...don’t remember anymore.”

“Then the ocean it was in,” Robin continued, and her voice was as mild as ever but it was hounding, biting at him.

“West. I don’t know how that would help, though,” he couldn’t help but add. “It’ll probably be at the bottom of the sea.”

Robin smiled. “Let me worry about that.”

“And,” he added, slowly, carefully, “you might not want to ask around too much. They – we, we’re only known as monsters, now.”

“I am a monster as well.” At Sanji’s spluttering protests, she waved a hand and said, “Oh, it’s no insult. Not anymore. People may give me whatever moniker they will; I am content to be a monster so long as I succeed in my goals.”

And oh, how badly he wanted her to succeed, how badly he wished he wasn’t useless. She was so important now, in a different way than she had been before, and he would ensure her success somehow, one way or another.

* * *

 

“CP9.”

His feet froze, stuck fast to the cobblestone. The murmurs of pedestrians slowed until they were incomprehensible and the water that served as roads seemed to roar in his ears, trapping him in a typhoon. He almost dropped the groceries – but tightened his fists instead, spun on his heel, and followed the cloaked man into the crowd.

* * *

 

“Just follow our instructions and no drastic measures will be needed.”

The man was stoic, calm, but in a blank sort of way; like it was trained into him rather than it being natural. He was hard to read, but he couldn’t be telling anything other than the truth. Sanji’s head rang with the words ‘Buster Call,’ over and over, a hypnotizing noise.

“You will assist us in obtaining the plans for Pluton. And then you will be used as a hostage in negotiations with the Vinsmoke family. After which, you will be allowed to live with them once more, with your crimes absolved.”

Vinsmoke. Another word that kept repeating. The daughter of a king, they said. The daughter of a genetic engineer. A daughter built to be a weapon. And no wonder he brought destruction.

“It’s a good deal,” another man added, his nose remarkably like Usopp’s. Uncomfortably like Usopp’s. “Royalty’s not a bad thing to happen to be. Better than being on the run, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” he felt himself say. “As long as you keep your promise.”

* * *

 

Everything blurred. He was led to a room above a bar, but he couldn’t recall anything about it despite never leaving it all day. Time seemed to keep skipping, sometimes forward, sometimes back, and he didn’t know how many nights had passed before they came back again, costume in hand.

Someone’s stomach churned at the anticipation of tonight’s affair. It should have been his, but it didn’t feel like it. When he stood up and joined them, he felt himself separate and lag a few feet behind himself. The cloak made him unrecognizable and he wondered if he would lose himself, wander the streets as a ghost forever more.

But he was tied to his body, and the two of them made it to the destination with their macabre escort, and there was a man there, in bed, and Sanji did what he had been born to do.

* * *

 

He only pulled back into himself when he set out to say his goodbyes and set his eyes on Nami and Chopper.

It was disorienting. How long had it been since he’d last eaten? How long had it been since he last slept? How long had it been since they last saw him, and why did they look so relieved at the sight of them when he…

Nami moved to find a way across the canal and Sanji barked, “Wait!”

“Stay right there,” he added, voice low but still carrying over to the opposite side. Nami hesitated. Chopper kept shuffling his hooves, like he was ready to just jump for him. Instead, he threw his own voice across the distance.

“Sanji, why’d you disappear? What’s going on? They say you attacked someone! Do you need help?”

The last one hit him hard and it took a moment for him to compose himself and compose an answer.

“I’m leaving the crew.”

Those words visibly hit them, perhaps even harder. He closed his eyes to shield himself from his own violence. “Why?” he heard Chopper yell. “Did we do something? Sanji, _please!”_

“Let’s talk about this,” Nami started, calmer than Chopper, but he could hear a weary, strained tone in her voice. “At least talk to Luffy – “

“Luffy made me a promise back when I joined. I’m just cashing in,” he replied. “Tell him. He should know what I’m talking about. Here are the groceries I bought.” The bags rustled against the stone as he set them down by his feet. They weren’t quite as fresh, but he had stored them properly for this. “Take care.”

He heard Chopper’s screams behind him, futile, fearful. He half expected Nami to forget about finding a bridge and just swim the canal, but she seemed frozen herself, and he managed to disappear into the dark.

* * *

 

He remembered thinking that the sea train looked like an impressive piece of machinery when he first saw it. Actually riding it felt like a miracle of invention. Would have felt. Under different circumstances, maybe.

“Don’t move from this car,” said some government agent, a forgettable face in a suit.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said tonelessly back.

Once the island of Water 7 disappeared behind them with a whistle and a scream of smoke, it started to sink in. He was in the hands of the World Government now. The _World Government._ Habitual panic settled, and a ten-year-old instinct drove him to look for an escape – what was he doing? Why was he here? He didn’t want this, he had been running for a decade exactly because he didn’t want this! Another force clamped down his pounding heart and hissed at him, it isn’t about what you want, not this time. And to save himself the pain, he let everything blur again. Maybe he could keep this up for the rest of his life.

His head lolled backwards and he simply stared straight.

* * *

 

Nami would have appreciated the elegance of this car, the satin drapes, the crystal lights, the embroidered patterns of the seats. She had always adored the finer things in life.

* * *

 

There didn’t seem to be much here to interest Robin, on the other hand, which just seemed unfortunate. Would she have liked the engine car? Despite her specialization in history, she always seemed like she enjoyed all sorts of knowledge. He could hear her hounding the engineer for the schematics.

* * *

 

The marimo would’ve just enjoyed the seats as a damn bed. Fucking asshole.

* * *

 

The idiot trio would be enthralled by the sight from the window. They were just so simple like that, not that wonder and awe were bad things or anything. Sometimes that childish sort of perspective was enviable, and –

Someone was outside his window, hanging onto the side of the fucking train, just waving at him.

Sanji opened his mouth to scream, but considered that it would be more considerate to open the window and pull the guy in, and now that he got a good look at the mask, he could see that damn nose.

“Usopp, what the _fuck_ are you wearing?!”

He had meant to say, ‘what the fuck are you doing here,’ but it was a legitimate question.

“You are mistaken, I am not Usopp-kun,” said the man who clearly was Usopp, speaking in a distinctly Usopp voice that was pitched slightly lower than usual. “But I am friends with him! I am the hero known as Sogeking!”

Someone was going crazy here. Sanji just wasn’t sure who it was.

“Why are you here? Didn’t Luffy get my fucking message?”

“From what I understand of the situation,” Usopp began, posing with a hand to his chin, “Luffy-kun has not yet arrived, but is making his way here for you. Meanwhile, Robin-kun and Franky-kun are coming this way, but I thought it would be better if we could move without having to go past the ones in the car behind us. If you use these Octo-shoes, we may make our escape from this car and wait for the rest to arrive!”

“Who the fuck is Franky?!” Sanji blurted as Usopp dumped what he really hoped weren’t real octopodes in his hands. “Wait, no, I’m not leaving!” He moved to pull away, but Usopp snatched his wrist with surprising strength.

“They know the truth, you know. They know why you’re doing this. Did you really think they’d just keep merrily going on?” Usopp’s voice was steadily growing harder, dropping whatever character it was he had been putting on. Somewhere behind his mask, Sanji could feel his eyes glaring righteously. “If there was something wrong, couldn’t you have just told them? Couldn’t you have just talked it out? That’s what friends are for! Don’t pretend that you have to do things alone!”

Sanji didn’t tug away immediately. He wanted to cry. He wanted to rip that damn mask off and press his face into Usopp’s hair, breathe deep that now-familiar smell of gunpowder. He lingered too long, and something about Usopp softened with hope, so it was a real shame when Sanji wrenched his hand away.

“I said from the very beginning I wasn’t going to stay, didn’t I?”

“And are you leaving willingly?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Sanji shouted back, mostly out of spite. And that was when one of the suits walked through the door.

Impressively, it took only a few seconds for the government agent to react and draw his gun. More impressively, Sanji couldn’t even get the word ‘Wait!’ out before Usopp shot something explosive into the agent’s face, sending him flying back through the door and into the middle of the next car. Where CP9 was.

The CP9 agents collectively looked down at the unconscious man, then back through the open door. Usopp whimpered.

The door on the other side of the CP9 car busted down under the force of another flying human body, and then there was Robin and a ridiculous-looking man who was hard to look at because he wasn’t wearing any pants. This must have been Franky.

Several things happened at once. Usopp picked him up under his arm with surprising strength and ran for safety behind his allies. Two of the CP9 members stood up, only for all of them to have a sudden case of arms growing like branches from their bodies. Robin moved to break their spines, but their weird iron body technique managed to counter that and she was left straining. But at the same time, they couldn’t move, and as soon as everybody was in the next car over, Franky busted the link between them. Robin dismissed her arms a little too early and one of the CP9 gripped the car with a whip before they grew too far apart, but then Franky took down the entire wall and crashed into the car, allowing the train to zoom ahead while their car slowed to a stop.

And then they were alone.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wouldn’t count as breaking their deal, would it? Shit.

“Phew,” Usopp exhaled, finally letting Sanji down. Sanji wavered on his feet for a few moments, and then kicked Usopp across the length of the car.

Robin gave a sharp gasp and turned to check on Usopp. There was that haze in the air, the one that wrapped itself around Sanji’s mind and stuffed it with cotton. “You should’ve just let me go,” he said, causing Robin to look back at him with an expression of, distaste? Exasperation?

“I hope you didn’t expect me to quietly stand by while you engage in self-destructive activities.”

“You wouldn’t understand – “

“Then _help_ me understand!” Robin shouted, shooting to her feet. He had never heard her raise her voice before, and it stunned him, left him wide open. She didn’t let off, her face creased with an unnatural anger. “I can’t help if I don’t have the knowledge required! And I refuse to stand by while another one disappears due to my ignorance!”

Her voice thrummed with hurt, resounded in him, and how could he refuse that request? And would it help, would they know enough to let him go? “It’s not like I’m being sent to my death! _You’re_ the ones being self-destructive here! They’ll kill you if I go with you – they’ve already destroyed an entire _island,_ Robin!” You’re so important, he tried to say. You’re all too important to die, because if you die, then a whole movement will die with you, entire ambitions, dreams. I need you to understand so you can explain to the others and they can realize what the important things are, please, please.

But Robin’s eyes were firm, her mouth a hard line as she replied, “They can try.”

Still, she couldn’t do anything when a door opened in the air and the bull-looking CP9 escorted him back to the train. He hoped that she would think it over, consider things logically, and when the entire crew regrouped, convince everybody about what was the best thing to do. Robin was smart. She could understand probability and odds, she could imagine the likeliest outcome. She had to.

Sanji got back to his seat. The car was the same, except Franky was also here, chained up. He frowned at the sight of him and said, “You should’ve stayed with them.”

“You don’t fucking know anything,” Sanji shot back, and for the rest of the ride, he enforced a strict silence.

* * *

 

“Synnøve,” they said, and it took him a moment to react. When he stood up, a soldier approached and cuffed his legs together; the chain was long enough to allow him to shuffle.

“So you won’t attempt to run or use your weapons of choice,” explained the only lady on the train.

“I won’t,” he insisted, but didn’t complain any further. The hands were next, and he lit up a cigarette before they were cuffed. He tripped over his first few steps, but was soon able to hit a rhythm that wasn’t too slow but didn’t risk him falling on his face.

Franky was less compliant, managing to be a nuisance even with the chains. And as Sanji watched him bite the hell out of some guy’s face, he sneered inwardly at his resistance and wondered, why try? (A part of him wondered at his feelings of superiority over giving up. This wasn’t him, it wasn’t, it wasn’t, but he kicked that part of him down.)

“I understand why he’s here,” Sanji nodded his head towards the rambunctious Franky (who was moments away from being subdued by the Usopp lookalike), “But why am I passing through? Doesn’t seem the right place to hold a negotiation to me.”

“Our boss wants to see you first,” said the bull-horns man, as the pigeon man took out a mini Den Den Mushi and announced, “She’s arrived.” Franky glanced askance at him, eyes asking the obvious question – _‘She?’_

Sanji avoided his look.

“Before the negotiations, we would also like to interrogate you on a few things. Any secrets of the Germa Kingdom. The research of the Ohara scholars.”

_That wasn’t in the deal,_ some part of him screamed, but he only bowed his head and said, “I don’t know anything, but fine.”

“Damn, you’re whipped,” Franky muttered.

“Follow her example and I wouldn’t have to keep twisting your arm like this,” the lady hissed, punctuating with a sharp pull that made him wince.

Sanji entered Enies Lobby.

* * *

 

And despite all odds, so did they.

They stood on the building across the bridge, across the hole to the center of the world, stood like they were claiming land (or claiming him), and their sheer defiance was blinding, burning even, flaying his own worthless flesh off. They were fearsome – maybe not to the CP9 behind him, but they invoked fear anyways, and thus he shouted, “Who asked you to come here!”

Spandam, the son of the man who had destroyed everything he had known, the son who would surely inherit his father’s legacy and wipe the slate clean again, laughed. “After so much trouble, they’re being turned away!”

Sanji tuned him out. It was hard to do. Everything was so clear, his mind sharp, and there was no pulling himself under the dead, blissful trances of before. Not with them there.

“I quit, didn’t I?!” he continued, his voice already hoarse. “I already told you to leave me alone! We don’t have any connection anymore!

“I’ve lied to you this whole time, don’t you realize? My real name isn’t Sanji! I had a bounty before I even met you! I was just using you as a cover, like all the other crews I’ve been on! I didn’t actually care about any of you, I was planning on leaving all along!

“I’m not even, I’m not...a man. I even lied about that. Everything you knew about me was fake! There’s nothing here for you!

“If you keep me, I’ll only be bad luck. Every single person I’ve been with gets caught up in some sort of attack. If you keep me, you’ll only get chased by the World Government itself! So that’s why...”

Whatever else he was about to say was swallowed up in flames along with the flag. His breath caught in his throat and stayed there, anticipating.

“If you really wanna quit, then say it to my face!”

And he looked at them, really looked at them, Nami, Robin, Zoro, Chopper, Usopp, Luffy, and he couldn’t.

The only thing he could say was,

“I’m sorry! Please! Take me back!”

* * *

 

They flew straight into his worst nightmares, grabbed his hand, and rode straight out with no casualties. He was stunned. But in the end, Merry slipped into the sea, long after the conflict. He hadn’t even known there had been any trouble with her at all, and what had he done, adding more stress on such a situation? He tried his best to apologize by mourning with the others.

There was always someone with him, as though they were watching in shifts. No, that wasn’t the right way to say it; more like, they were making up for lost time. As they waited for a new ship (and for Usopp to come back), he found himself dragged out to appreciate the city proper – despite its slightly ragged state. He rode the water roads with Chopper, admiring the way they sparkled, and couldn’t every city have this system? He tried on extravagant masks with Nami, and though the prices were equally extravagant, she offered to buy one. A souvenir. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted a memento of this particular place or not. They sampled the food stalls instead. He visited monuments with Robin and listened to her soft, quiet explanations of the whos and whys, and he started to realize just how fucking important the guy he had tried to kill was. “Think I’ll be in the history books?” he joked.

Robin patted his shoulder. “History books seldom have the whole picture.”

Zoro deigned to share a single moment with him, which consisted of them staring at each other warily and him giving a slight nod. (Though Sanji suspected that he had actually been nodding off.) Luffy was confined to strict bed rest, but he was enthusiastic even as a patient and made just sitting by his bedside feel exhilarating. Usopp was, unavailable. Which sucked, because now that Sanji was a bit freer, he wanted to talk about, things.

* * *

 

“Hey, wow, everybody’s got bounties now!”

It was a half celebration and half lament, an odd sort of combination, and Sanji wasn’t sure where he stood.

It wasn’t exactly a big deal, since he already was used to being wanted by the law. The bounty itself didn’t increase by much either – like the increase was only there to justify updating the poster. And on a certain level, it felt like a long time coming. It had been almost embarrassing how long the government held on to that decade-old picture, almost oafishly incompetent. But on the other hand…

Nami paused in her misery to peer over his shoulder and scrunched her nose. “Oh,” she said, catching the attention of the others, who moved to crowd around him. Chopper hopped a few times at his feet before remembering he could just change forms, and he added on to the silence.

Luffy laughed and clapped him on the back. “That’s a real good bounty! Pretty good for your first!”

“Not my first,” Sanji reminded in between the pounding his spine took.

“ _Luffy,_ ” Nami hissed, snatching Luffy’s wrist out of the air and stopping him with that beautiful, miraculous strength of hers. “Be a little sensitive!”

Even Luffy couldn’t ignore that authoritative tone. “Uh? ‘S there something wrong?” Before anybody could explain anything to him, he shoved his head back in front of the poster and squinted for the answer. Everybody stayed silent, either encouraging Luffy to figure it out on his own or reluctant to tell Luffy the answer out loud. Eventually, surprisingly, Luffy leaned back and exclaimed, “Hey! That’s not how you spell Sanji! Are they idiots?”

“They weren’t _spelling_ Sanji,” Zoro muttered in Luffy’s ear. Luffy recoiled and eyed Zoro with bewilderment.

“But he’s Sanji!”

With a sigh, Nami shoved Luffy away. “Look, I’ve actually been meaning to ask this...what do you want us to call you?”

“It’s not that I hate my name,” he quickly said. “It’s what my mom gave me. I can’t hate that.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” And damn, Robin was too smart, and if he was uncouth, he would have said it was a nuisance. “What are your honest feelings about your name?”

It was uncomfortable. Like wearing only a sweater, the wool rubbing against bare skin, aggravating, abhorrent. He wanted to say that he didn’t mind, that the only reason he would have minded (being in hiding) was now gone and he was free to go back to being Synnøve. He wanted to say that he didn’t have that gut reaction, the thrum of fear mixed with a tone of stress. He wanted to say that it had all just been a disguise, that he would be normal, natural, from now on.

“I prefer Sanji,” he said in a rushed exhale, eyes squeezed shut.

“Alright,” was the answer, and that was that. Nothing so painless, no strike of lightning, just the continuing force of time pushing gently along.

And so, he was Sanji.

* * *

 

Sanji had been a little worried there, for a moment, but it worked out in the end at the very last minute, and Usopp was getting flung back onto the new ship trailing tears and snot and Sanji could almost forget all the cannonballs being flung their way because _Usopp was back_ and thus the ship was complete. He almost found himself joining the snotty pile on the floor, but managed to restrain himself to an ecstatic shout that lasted a minute or four.

And then there was the party, and maybe he should have saved his voice for that because a Strawhat party could only ever be unapologetically loud. And with the return of two members and the introduction of one new one, the party had to be thrice as loud as usual and as Sanji got swept up in the celebrations, he looked around, at Nami and Zoro chugging down drink after drink, at Chopper rolling around on the grass, at Luffy and Usopp hanging off each other like nothing had ever happened, Robin uncharacteristically letting loose and picking him up to dance, Franky somehow fitting in already as though the crew had had a cyborg-shaped hole all along, and told himself, this is here to stay.

What a concept, in a world of the temporary, after a life of the temporary! And when Robin spun him around into a dip, his laugh came out as freely as he felt in this moment of the rest of his life.

* * *

 

“Oi, Usopp.”

It might not be the best conversation to have while hungover, but at the same time, everybody else being hungover meant that it was the perfect time for the conversation. So even when Usopp glared blearily at him and set his head back down on his pillow, Sanji pulled him out of bed and slung him over his shoulder before walking to the kitchen. This was for the greater good, he reminded himself as Usopp managed a single punch to his back and then gave up. Or, it was for his personal good. It was a good.

Sanji was kind enough to place Usopp squarely in a chair, but decided that Usopp could pick himself up when he slid right out. He sat on the other side of the table and folded his hands together.

Usopp’s first attempt at words resulted in a “Bleeuuuugh.” Sanji interpreted it as something along the lines of ‘What is it,’ and accepted the invitation to start the conversation.

“Remember when you said I was attractive?”

That sobered Usopp up. He straightened so fast he almost fell out of his chair again. “N-n-now, I never said _that,_ exactly, I mean, the word ‘attractive’ was certainly said, however – “

“Am I, um, still attractive? In the same way? As, as a, guy.”

Usopp went silent for a moment, and then, eyes matching his, said, “If you’re worried about what we think of you, there’s no way we think any different. There’s no way I could! You’re, like, one of my idols of manhood basically!”

Sanji let his face fall into his hands. “Oh my god you’re embarrassing.”

“Sh-shut up!”

“So, then, do you think, maybe, you would like to have,” Sanji pointed back and forth at himself and Usopp, “a _thing?”_

If there was a way to be more sober than sober, Usopp had just achieved it. He swallowed, his throat trembling, and said, “A _thing.”_

The way he said it was ambiguous, devoid of tone, and Sanji found himself ducking and looking away, knotting his fingers in his hair. “I mean, like, before, I just thought it was impossible, because, because of my whole, situation. But, _now..._ you know, I’m...free. And, I think I might, like you?”

Usopp, leaning back in his chair and covering his mouth like he was afraid to release it, said, “Oh.”

“I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to have a thing, that’s fine! I don’t even know anything about what I’m supposed to do, so, I don’t really think I’ll be _great_ at it, and, I dunno, maybe it’s best if we don’t, I mean, we all just got back together and all, maybe having a thing would make things weird, and,”

“When you say ‘thing,’ you’re talking about dating, right? Like a date? _Relationships?”_

To hear it so directly sent blushes up Sanji’s face and he almost stood up and left the room. Instead, he only pushed the chair back and looked carefully at the far corner. “Ye-es.”

“I, I just kinda thought, you’d rather go for...you know, girls?”

The thought bleached his blush away immediately. Be in close proximity to those confident, put-together, pinnacle of miraculous human beings? Hugging? _Kissing?_

“I’d die,” he said.

Usopp nodded absentmindedly. It was a little bit of a relief to see him with stiffened shoulders, looking uncomfortably at the floor. “Well, I. I guess, I kinda, _also_ wanna. Date? If that’s okay?”

“If it’s okay with you,” Sanji said in one breath. Usopp nodded fervently, still not quite looking directly at him. And was that it? Were they now in a _thing_ together?

Sanji tentatively stopped shaking his leg. “Do, do we do something now?”

“I dunno,” Usopp mumbled. “We could, hold hands?”

They fit together like gears, first just sliding over each other and then interlocking into a finely-tied unit. Usopp’s hand was soft and warm and Sanji wanted to sink into it, sink into all of him, but he settled for just leaning closer over the table and forcing himself to stare at Usopp’s face. It looked as awkward as he felt, but that was, pretty damn cute, and who knew that he could do this to a person? Who knew a simple boy could do this to him?

“Sorry for kicking you back on the train,” he said.

“The wolf guy was worse.”

“Thanks for making all those fucking amazing shots for me.”

“That was Sogeking actu – “ Usopp paused at Sanji’s look, a little bit of impatience, a little bit of sympathy, a little bit of soft fondness. He rubbed his nose. “I’d do it any time.”


End file.
